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STOLEN HONEY 



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/ 








STOLEN HONEY 

BY J 

RACHEL SWETE MACNAMARA 

Author of “Jealous Gods” 

“The Green Shoes of April,” etc. 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 





Copyright, 1923 

By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(iNCbRPORATED) 





Printed in the United States of America 


PRESS OF GEO. H. ELLIS CO. (INC.) BOSTON 





STOLEN HONEY 


* 




































STOLEN HONEY 


CHAPTER I 

LANGRISHE PROPOSES 

If Damer Langrishe had used an ordinary instead of a 
fountain pen probably the letter would never have got 
itself written. 

The pauses necessary for the dipping of pen-point in 
ink might have crystallized his momentary irresolutions 
into definite indecision. As it was, the easy unchecked 
flow led him on almost imperceptibly to the abrupt char¬ 
acteristic signature that set seal to the most important 
document of his life. 

Outside, the fierce heat of the Indian summer sun 
blazed and beat upon the ground with a still intensity. 
Inside, in the bare, whitewashed room which he called 
his study, the hot air was disturbed by the creaking waft 
of a punkah, which swayed to a pause just as Langrishe 
drew a firm line beneath his signature. 

Scantily clad though he was, sweat poured down his 
forehead in huge drops. He looked up at the still punkah- 
frill, and shouted an order in Hindustani. The punkah 
jerked convulsively on again, steadying by degrees to an 
even rhythm. 

Langrishe mopped his face with a rueful grin. 

“It's warm work, proposing by letter/’ he said to him¬ 
self. “If I could only see the girl face to face I might 

i 


2 


STOLEN HONEY 


be able to put things in a more attractive light. A letter’s 
so damn bald. You never know how the other person 
may read it. Still, it’s a business proposition more or 
less. What else could it be, after all? A widower of 
forty-two—an ugly devil at that—asking a girl of twenty- 
eight to marry him, a girl he hasn’t seen or thought of 
for at least ten years! Hang it all, I can’t send the 
letter! I won’t!” 

He drew the sheet of paper towards him, held it for 
a moment as if he were going to tear it across, hesitated, 
dropped it, then pushed it a little away from him. 

"I’ll smoke on it first,” he said, taking a cigar from 
a cedar-lined box at his elbow. "I think the occasion 
warrants a Corona.” 

The flare of the match sent a sharp spurt of orange 
into the hot dusk of the room. As he cupped it in his 
strong, sunburnt hands to avoid the draught of the punkah, 
its light flamed with odd effect on his face, accentuating 
the rather hard lines of mouth and chin, and evoking 
queer little sparks from the light-blue eyes that peered 
from beneath tangled, bushy brows. Reddish hair, now 
subdued from its earlier flamboyance, grew close to a 
well-shaped head, and a clean-cut nose with sensitive 
nostrils contradicted the warring jut of the chin. 

Taken altogether, it was a strong face and not un¬ 
attractive. The eyes, which bore the unmistakable look 
of one who has gazed towards far horizons across great 
spaces, could soften to tenderness beneath their thick 
sandy lashes as readily as they could blaze to a sudden 
hot anger, as evanescent as it was fierce. The sight of 
children or young creatures evoked the former, cruelty 
or injustice in any form, the latter. 

Women liked Darner Langrishe, although he was es¬ 
sentially a man’s rather than a woman’s man. The six 


LANGRISHE PROPOSES 


3 


years of his widowerhood had left him unsolaced by the 
easy consolations which feminine India had so willingly 
proffered. 

Truth to tell, he had enjoyed his work and his sport 
all the more for being untrammelled. He had been 
blessedly free from women, their complexities, their sub¬ 
tleties, save for a vague undisturbing little daughter 
at school in England. He had had no desire to replace 
Helena, the bride of a boyish infatuation, the wife of 
twelve courteously bored years, until now, when he was 
faced by the prospect of having a grown-up daughter 
to look after—a prospect which seemed to have leaped 
into his pleasant, work-filled life with an appalling sud¬ 
denness. 

‘‘What else am I to do when Dido declares that she 
won’t stay at school any longer?” he mused, his face 
softening. “This is no place for a girl alone, and I don’t 
want any of the women out here to look after her. I 
wouldn’t trust one of them with my little girl. She’d jib 
at anything in the nature of a governess or companion, 
I suppose. Well, she can’t turn up her nose at a step¬ 
mother. Someone in a definite position of authority. 
Someone not so very much older than herself. Someone 
whom I can trust.” 

He emphasized the word with a puff of blue cigar- 
smoke, quite unaware of the futility of the statements 
which he postulated so confidently out of his pathetic 
ignorance of modern girlhood. 

“Whom could I trust if not one of Lucius Carey’s 
daughters ?” he went on, touching the fateful letter 
almost carelessly. “I know that they are straight, well- 
bred, well-brought-up girls. My cousin Lucius may be 
a bit of a fool, but he’s a gentleman, and Janet, his wife, 
has a head on her plump shoulders.” 


4 STOLEN HONEY 

He pulled the letter towards him, and fingered it 
irresolutely. 

“Shall I risk it? All marriage is a risk, if it comes to 
that. The hottest love-matches smoulder quickest to 
ashes/’ He checked a sigh, thinking of his own, whose 
leaping flames had sunk so suddenly to a barely per¬ 
ceptible warmth. “Fve always been rather a believer 
in the French matrimonial system, which seems to work 
admirably. It’s much the same as that practised by the 
Irish peasantry, and everyone knows that they are the 
most virtuous race in Europe. Why is it? It’s be¬ 
cause they base their married life on a sense of duty 
rather than on any wild, unbalanced passion. I think 
it stands to reason that if a decent man and woman, 
starting on a basis of mutual esteem and respect, agree 
to marry each other, and to do their duty by each other 
to the best of their ability, they have a better chance of 
happiness than if they rushed into matrimony blinded 
by the urgency of mere physical attraction. Judging by 
the last letter I had from poor Lucius, his affairs are in 
a bad way. He’ll be glad to get one of the girls off his 
hands. Five of them, by Gad! and all unmarried. 
Pamela’s getting on, too. Twenty-eight. A sensible age. 
She’s had her fling by this—an innocent enough young 
fling, I’ll swear—and should be ready to settle down. 
She was a sweet slip of a thing that summer poor 
Helena and I spent in Ireland ten years ago. Dido took 
to her then, I remember. What a weed the brat was, 
all eyes and legs and peaked, white face^—a typical An¬ 
glo-Indian child! I wonder what she’s like now? It’s 
hard to realize that she’s grown-up. By Gad! it’s five 
whole years since I’ve seen her. Five years!” 

Darner Langrishe almost let his cigar go out as he 


LANGRISHE PROPOSES 


5 

tried to peer across the gulf which suddenly gaped in 
front of him. 

Five years since he had seen his daughter, Dido. Five 
of the most important years in her life; years of the 
ripening and nourishing of the green bud of childhood 
to the opening blossom of womanhood; years of untold 
possibilities; years which would influence the girl's whole 
future; years in which absence might have separated 
them irrevocably. 

Langrishe, though not over prone to analysis, frowned 
at the thought, then shook his head meditatively. 

“No, I’m taking no risks," he said to himself. “I 
know nothing about girls. I must have someone who 
will help me to understand the child. If she comes at 
all, Pam must come out and marry me before Dido ar¬ 
rives. She must be here, established, in her rightful 
place as mistress, before my little monsoon, as I used to 
call her, is on us. I’ll take no risks." 

With slightly reinforced cheerfulness, he drew the let¬ 
ter towards him once more, folded it and put it into 
an envelope, which he addressed to “Miss Pamela Carey, 
Carrigrennan, Moviddy, Co. Cork, Ireland"; thus un¬ 
wittingly taking one of the biggest risks that mortal man 
may venture; thus unimaginatively hazarding the wild¬ 
est leap into the unfathomed and unknown. 

Then, with another shout at the flagging punkah- 
coolie, and thinking himself a model of wise precaution, 
Langrishe drew a fresh sheet of paper towards him, and 
began to write a covering letter to the father of the girl 
he proposed to marry, leaving it to him as to whether he 
would deliver his offer of marriage or not. 

Once more the fountain pen did its appointed work. 
The letter was finished, folded, put, with its enclosure, 


6 


STOLEN HONEY 


into a large envelope, and sealed with the Langrishe crest 
—a lion rampant, with the motto “Vis virtute nascitur,” 
—a motto which all the Langrishes secretly but honestly 
tried to translate into action. Certainly what strength 
Darner of that ilk possessed sprang from his own innate 
qualities, for of this world's goods he owned but what 
he had earned for himself. 

He touched the red seal with a questioning forefinger. 

“Strength is bom of virtue," he murmured. “Pamela 
is sure to be a good girl, and that’s what matters most. 
Lucius Carey’s daughter ought to have a sense of duty. 
He’s the man to inculcate that! Lord, how priggish 
and old-fashioned it all sounds in these days of self- 
determination and psyco-analysis! But’’—mused Darner 
Langrishe, with an air of one who, having discovered a 
profound truth, utters it in one eloquent and original 
phrase—“goodness is to a woman what perfume is to a 
flower. Beauty is nothing without it.’’ 

He clapped his hands to summon a servant, desirous 
of making his decision irrevocable. In spite of his dic¬ 
tum about goodness and beauty, his mind dwelt pleasur¬ 
ably on a swift vision of the girl Pamela, tall and slim 
and blue-eyed. 

The bearer entered, dignified in his white robe, which 
showed snowy-cool against the dingier wall. 

“Huzoor?’’ he queried, softly guttural. 

“Have this posted, Naryan.’’ Langrishe held out the 
momentous letter. 

“Yes, Huzoor.” 

“And, Naryan?” 

“Huzoor?” 

“Do you know what’s wrong with the world to-day?” 

“It is not for the sahib’s servant to say.” 

“It can be put in a nutshell, Naryan. The world has 


LANGRISHE PROPOSES 


7 

mislaid its sense of duty. That’s what has caused all 
the trouble.” 

Naryan salaamed profoundly. 

“Without a doubt the words of the sahib are words 
of wisdom. Yet that which is but mislaid may be found 
again, Huzoor, if it be the will of God.” 

His gentle optimism touched and pricked his master. 
As his white robe glimmered, to disappear behind the 
grass curtain that did duty for a door, Langrishe, seized 
by his first real misgiving, felt a sudden desire to call 
him back. Then that unacknowledged but immanent 
sense of fatalism, which broods like some unseen, puis¬ 
sant presence over the East, laid a restraining finger on 
him. 

“What is to be will be,” he murmured, with a move¬ 
ment of shoulders which looked square and strong enough 
to bear many another burden. “If Pamela comes, she 
comes, and if she doesn’t, she doesn’t. That’s all about 
it, except that it will complicate matters infernally if 
she’s too romantic to accept my offer.” 

It did not occur to him that it might complicate mat¬ 
ters considerably more if she were not. He was a man 
of but one idea, one point of view at the moment. His 
mind ran in straight, if tolerably broad lines. Life had 
hitherto been for him a simple, normal affair. Even the 
subsequent tepidity of his first marriage had borne no 
unusual feature. Scores of men whom he knew had 
never touched vital happiness as far as he could see. 
Married life, for them, jogged along at best; irked and 
jarred at worst, unless, as sometimes happened, the bond 
snapped asunder altogether. 

The joy and beauty and ecstasy of love he relegated 
to the raptures of adolescence, over almost as soon as 
they were realized. 


8 


STOLEN HONEY 


He got up abruptly, pulled the grass curtain aside, and 
went into the stiff, half-furnished drawing-room of the 
bungalow. 

He stood there for a moment in the shuttered dusk, 
looking round with new eyes at the bare, high walls, now 
lizard-haunted, the empty dusty spaces. 

Suddenly it occurred to him that it might be pleasant 
to hear women’s voices about the place again, the tap 
of little heels, the whisper of silks; to see young faces, 
bright eyes, responsive smiles; to have someone waiting 
there when he came in, someone of his own once more. 

Old desires, long deemed dead, pulsed to unexpected 
life. Primitive man stirred beneath the layers of civi¬ 
lization and repression, demanding primitive needs, his 
mate and his lair. 

Langrishe gave a half-angry laugh as he strode to 
the other end of the big stifling room. He laid a- hand 
on a shutter as if to push it open, then paused, remember¬ 
ing the blinding glare that poured upon the deserted com¬ 
pound outside. 

“If Pamela comes we might make a garden there next 
cold weather,” he thought. “If-!” 

He turned on this and thrust his hands in his trouser 
pockets. The thin silk of his open shirt clung to his 
body, but for the moment he forgot the heat, the dust, 
the flies, the thousand pricking discomforts of an Indian 
hot weather in the plains. 

“If Pamela comes, before God I’ll do my best to see 
that she never regrets it,” he vowed. 

All at once, as if a lamp had suddenly been lighted 
in a dark place, Darner Langrishe knew that he had been 
lonely, not only for the six years of his widowerhood, but 
for a long day before that. 


CHAPTER II 


MARRIAGE by POST 

“Pam, you’re wanted!” 

Kitty Carey’s clear young voice rang with a high in¬ 
sistence along the corridor, momentarily coming nearer. 

“Where? I can’t come. I’m washing my hair.” 

Pamela’s answer came after a pause muffled by a tangle 
of soap-sudsy tresses. 

“In the study. You’re to go at once. Mother is 
there with dad.” 

Kitty burst excitedly into the shabby bathroom where 
her elder sister* was vigorously washing her hair in a 
cracked basin. 

Redolent of life as an April day, Kitty perched herself 
with a sudden movement on the edge of a bath which 
sadly needed repainting. In an upper corner of the 
wall a dark, spreading stain showed where a shoot outside 
had leaked. A strip of once glazed drab paper curled 
forlornly downwards. Pamela always meant to make 
some paste and fasten it up again when she had time. 
Two of the small panes of the half-opened window were 
broken, but so far Pamela had never had sufficient leisure 
to learn the art of glazing. 

“Well, what’s the matter now?” she asked with an¬ 
noyed resignation, glancing at Kitty through a veil of 
wet dark hair. “It’s a queer thing I can’t even be let 
wash my hair in peace.” 

“It is indeed,” answered Kitty, sympathetically, glow¬ 
ing like a rose against her dingy background. “I don’t 

0 


10 


STOLEN HONEY 


know what they want you for, Pam, but I think it has 
something to do with a letter. At least I was teaching 
Snipe to beg in the hall, when dad came in with a letter 
in his hand and a funny look in his eyes, and asked me 
where mother was. Then, after mother had been with 
him for about ten minutes, she came out looking fright¬ 
fully red and excited, and told me to tell you to go to 
her at once. ,, 

“A letter ?” groaned Pamela. “A bill, you may be 
sure. Run down, like an angel, Kitty, and tell them if 
it’s Murphy’s bill that I haven’t a copper till my ducks 
are sold. If it’s Murphy himself-” 

“It isn’t Murphy. It’s a letter, I tell you.” Kitty 
broke into a soft ripple of laughter. “Oh, Pam, maybe 
it’s a surprise of some sort!” 

Kitty’s blue eyes danced. She was young enough to 
love surprises. Pamela, at twenty-eight, was old enough 
to dread them. 

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she poured the last can of 
cold rain-water over her head, squeezed out the rope of 
soft dark hair, from which the wetting had momentarily 
robbed its curl, took a bath-towel off the rickety horse 
and wrapped it round her head, turban-wise. Slipping 
her faded blue cotton frock over her white shoulders 
she turned to face Kitty with a look of resignation. 

“If they’re by themselves I can go down as I am,” 
she said. 

Her voice was soft, but it lacked the lilt of Kitty’s. 
Her eyes, deep sapphire as the young girl’s and shaded 
by the same dark curling lashes, had more depth if less 
sparkle than her sister’s. Her nose (which she hated) 
had begun by being straight but turned up with rather 
a provocative tilt at the end, and her generous mouth 


MARRIAGE BY POST 


ii 


seemed made rather for love and laughter than the tight 
lines into which the exigencies of life sometimes com¬ 
pressed it. There were also lines, faint as yet, but still 
unmistakable, across her forehead, and at the corners of 
her eyes lurked the light humorous traceries which 
laughter brings early even to young faces. 

Pamela Carey was more attractive than really pretty. 
There was character in her level brows, her firm chin, 
the wide curve of her mouth. Sincerity shone in her 
clear, straight gaze,: the grip of her strong little hand 
presaged a friendship not too easily won, but well worth 
the winning. She was above the average height, slim, 
small-boned, and light of movement. Her white skin 
was prone to freckle. At the moment a faint brown dust¬ 
ing of the obnoxious spots powdered nose and cheeks. 

The folds of the Turkish towel about her head lent 
a curious severity, a touch of aloofness almost, to her 
aspect. She tucked her arm through her sisters. 

“Come along, Kit. We may as well know the worst,” 
she said ruefully. 

She hated appearing before her parents in her present 
guise. She knew that her father would make his stock 
remark: “Aha, my Eastern lady!” and that her mother 
would say with rounded eyebrows: “What! Washing 
your hair again?” 

In Mrs. Carey’s eyes her girls’ tendency to wash their 
hair “in season and out of season,” as she said plaintively, 
amounted almost to a mania. As there were usually five 
of them ready to perform this ablutionary duty an “East¬ 
ern lady” was very often to be seen wandering among 
the cool, dim passages at Carrigrennan. 

Pamela went reluctantly down the wide shallow stairs, 
an anxious little frown creasing her forehead. This 


12 


STOLEN HONEY 


hasty summons to a family conclave touched the porten¬ 
tous. She had not been bidden thus to the study since 
the awful day when her only brother Randall had come 
home unexpectedly from college pouring an avalanche 
of bills upon them, which had completely swept away the 
family monetary resources. 

She checked a sigh at the remembrance. Dear old 
Randall! He had been foolish, thoughtless only, and 
he had made good afterwards. He had given more than 
any wretched money could buy—his life for his country. 
Pamela felt, with a sick throb of longing, that she 
would give everything she had in the world, everything 
she might ever have, pinch and scrape to the end of her 
days, if only she could see the twinkle in his merry eyes 
or hear the sound of his gay tuneless whistle once more. 
Only one year in age had separated them. They had 
been near in spirit as well. Now he was gone. 

She paused in the big square hall and took up her 
father’s tweed cap, which lay with his stick thrown 
carelessly on the round table in the centre. She put it 
down again aimlessly. 

“Did the letter come by the second post, Kitty, or 
did it come by hand?” she asked anxiously. 

“I don’t know. Dad must have met it in the avenue, 
however it came,” Kitty answered airily. “What does 
it matter, anyhow? I’m dying to know what was in it. 
Aren’t you?” 

“No. Don’t go in for a minute, Kitty.” 

“Why not?” 

Kitty looked at her sister curiously, wondering why 
she hesitated. 

“I don’t know.” 

Pamela turned away her head, then stooped to caress 
a red setter who was lying half under the table. 


MARRIAGE BY POST 


13 


Her movement seemed to loose a torrent of dogs upon 
her. In through the door rushed two terriers, and from 
the centre of an old sofa, near the window, where he had 
been basking, apparently asleep, in a shaft of dust-filled 
sunlight, floundered a great brindled bull-dog. 

“Down, boys! Down, Rufus! Down, Punch!” 

Pamela rose from the swirl of dogs, her white turban 
knocked slightly to one side, with rakish effect. 

“Oh, come on,” cried Kitty. “They’ll only be annoyed 
if you keep them waiting.” 

She ran across the hall and opened the study door. 
To her gay inconsequent youth the unknown held all 
the glamour of a fairy-tale. The rosy mists of the future 
might at any moment thin to reveal the magical. There 
was nothing that might not happen, any day at any hour. 
She had no patience with Pamela’s doubts and tremors. 

“Here she is!” she cried excitedly. “She’s been 
washing her hair.” 

“Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Carey, but with more resig¬ 
nation than actual disapproval. 

She was a short stout woman, with a comely face set 
upon an almost ovoid body. 

“Humpty-dumpty” her irreverent youngest daughter 
called her, but as Kitty always hugged her when she 
said it, the disrespectful jest bore no sting. 

The brown-walled, book-lined room looked cool and 
dim after the glare of the hall outside. Pamela, glancing 
from one parent to the other, was aware of an atmos¬ 
phere of tension, of scarcely subdued excitement. 

“Kitty needn’t stay, need she?” 

Whatever had to be faced, she felt she could bear it 
better alone with the elders who still treated her as a 
child, although they were always ready to consult her in 
times of stress. 


14 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Oh, Pam, how mean of you!” Kitty's brightness 
clouded. 

“Pam is quite right. This—matter—concerns her 
alone,” said Lucius Carey, looking up from the knee-hole 
desk behind which he had entrenched himself. 

Thus barricaded, he felt master of the situation. In 
his shabby old leather armchair he knew that he was 
always more or less at the mercy of his women folk. 

Thin and spare, with once fair, greying hair, he peered 
from beneath tangled brows with the light blue eyes 
of his kinsman, Darner Langrishe; but whereas Langrishe 
looked across great spaces to distant realities, Lucius 
Carey, with the vision of a dreamer, looked ever for 
horizons which were not there. 

A gentleman farmer, as the quaint phrase has it, he 
was so much more of a gentleman than a farmer that the 
Carrigrennan acres now yielded but a bare subsistence 
out of their former abundance. 

“Yes,” he repeated musingly, his veined hand on an 
opened letter, “This concerns Pamela alone.” 

“I'm sure it concerns us all, Lucius,” said Mrs. Carey, 
with a vibration in her tone which made Pamela dart a 
quick glance at her. 

“Then if it concerns us all I may stay, mayn’t I, 
mummy?” pleaded Kitty, with saucy confidence. 

“Indeed you may not,” answered her mother, failing 
her unexpectedly. “How many more times will you 
have to be told to run away, Kitty?” 

“I think you’re all most frightfully mean,” Kitty 
declared, marching out of the room with flushed face 
and tear-stained eyes, banging the door behind her. 

Lucius Carey started. “I have a good mind to bring 
that child back and make her shut the door quietly. 
She’s getting too old for that sort of thing.” 


MARRIAGE BY POST 


15 


“Never mind her now, Lucius. She only wanted to 
see that it was fastened properly.” Mrs. Carey fidgetted 
on her chair. Her plump hands fluttered and trembled. 
“Tell Pam the news, like a good man, and give her her 
letter.” 

“What letter?” asked Pamela, a spark of hope, of 
repressed youth stirring within her. “Is it an invitation 
anywhere ?” 

After all, there could be nothing really terrifying in 
a letter which concerned her alone. She had no personal 
debts. Out of what she called her “fowl money,” she 
paid for everything she wore. There was no unpleasant 
secret lurking in her past waiting to spring unexpectedly 
upon her. The only secrets she had ever had were her 
dreams, and those concerned nobody but herself. 

“It is,” announced Mrs. Carey, her eyes sparkling, 
her round cheeks shaking with suppressed triumph. 

“Janet, my dear-” 

“I must tell her, Lucius, or I’ll explode. How you 
can sit there so calm and unconcerned passes my under¬ 
standing,” cried Mrs. Carey. “It is an invitation, Pam, 
my dear. An invitation to go to—India!” 

“To India? Me?” cried Pamela, ungrammatically, 
sinking down on the nearest chair. “Mother, you’re 
joking ?” 

India, the land of colour, romance, glamour! The 
very deepest hidden of all her secret dreams! 

The colour ebbed from Pamela’s cheeks, leaving her 
face white and sharpened to an incredulous intensity. 
Her eyes darkened and widened. 

“I am not, indeed. Am I, Lucius?’’’ Mrs. Carey 
turned to her husband for support. “Now you can tell 
her the rest.” 

Her breath came quickly. Her brown eyes were 


i6 


STOLEN HONEY 


bright and darting as those of a bird. She folded her 
hands across her ample frontage, and looked trium¬ 
phantly from husband to daughter. Not since the day 
when Lucius himself had proposed to her had she known 
such an ineffable moment. 

“Your mother has only told you half,” said Mr. Carey 
slowly. “Of course there are conditions attached to 
such a proposition-” 

“Oh, Lucius, how you drag things out!” interrupted 
Mrs. Carey impatiently. “Pam, my dear, it is an offer 
of marriage, a proposal from your cousin Darner Lan- 
grishe.” 

Pamela caught her breath; her normal, working-day 
world suddenly disintegrated to a spinning chaos. 

“A proposal—from Darner Langrishe—for me?” she 
jerked out disconnectedly. 

“Yes, indeed. He has written to your father. A 
very proper letter. He wants you to go out to India in 
October to marry him.” 

“But—but—I don’t know him! He doesn’t know 
me!” gasped Pamela. 

“Now, Pam, don’t be foolish. He knows us, and he 
knows all about you-” 

“He doesn’t know a single thing about me! How 
could he?” Pamela cried, colour rushing back to her 
cheeks in a flame. 

Lucius Carey felt that it was time for him to inter¬ 
fere. He lifted his head and straightened his bent shoul¬ 
ders. 

“You had better listen to what your cousin says, be¬ 
fore you go jumping to rash conclusions, Pamela,” 
he interposed quietly. “He wrote to me and left it to 
my own judgment as to whether I should give you this 
letter or not. After due consideration-” 


MARRIAGE BY POST 


1 7 

Across Pamela's mind flashed a rebellious—‘Ten min¬ 
utes, according to Kitty!” 

“We decided that you must choose for yourself.” 

The words sounded tolerant and reasonable, but in her 
mother’s unconcealed exultance and the spark of hope 
which unwontedly quickened her father’s mild depressed 
face, Pamela saw Fate closing in upon her. 

“They jump at the chance of getting rid of me,” she 
thought, a swift unusual bitterness momentarily cloud¬ 
ing her real affection for them. 

Gulping down resentment with an effort she asked 
quietly: 

“What else does Darner say?” 

“Why don’t you give her her own letter, Lucius?” 

“Oh, he has written to me as well?” Pamela groped 
for the tangible in her bewilderment. 

“Yes.” Mr. Carey handed the greyish foreign en¬ 
velope, whose dull exterior hid the unmistakable jewel 
of Pamela’s first proposal. 

Her fingers closed on it possessively, but she made no 
attempt to open it. 

“Aren’t you going to read Darner’s letter?” asked Mrs. 
Carey, simmering with curiosity. 

“Not here,” answered Pamela, holding the letter close 
to her, as if she thought her mother might attempt to 
wrest it from her. 

“Poor Darner must be lonely out there,” Mrs. Carey 
continued. “He wants companionship, especially now 
that Dido is grown-up and going out to him.” 

“I’d have thought he’d want it less than ever for that 
reason,” Pamela murmured. 

“You remember Dido? She took a great fancy to 
you when they were here ten years ago. So did Darner.” 

“Oh, no, mother, he didn’t.” 


i8 


STOLEN HONEY 


“He must have, Pam. Look at him, proposing for 
you now! Ah, he’s one of those quiet sort of men who 
never show what they really feel.” 

“But, mother, his wife was alive then?” Pamela cried 
in eager protest. 

“Surely, Pam, he might take a fancy to his own little 
cousin without your insinuating that I meant anything 
nasty! What young people are coming to nowadays, 
I’m sure I don’t know!” 

“Janet, my dear, you’re straying from the point,” in¬ 
terposed Mr. Carey. “To put the matter in a nutshell, 
Pam, Darner wants you to marry him, and, as your 
mother says, be a companion to himself and his mother¬ 
less girl. He does not pretend to any wild romance. 
He knows that, as my daughter, you are a well-brought- 
up girl, a lady in the best sense of that much abused 
word. He is a Langrishe. No more need be said about 
that. We may take it for granted that he is a straight, 
honourable gentleman.” 

“That’s all very well!” cried Pamela, feeling the mesh 
of the net. “But what do you know about him, really, 
Dad—his thoughts, his feelings, all the little things that 
are so immensely important.” 

“Now you are being absurd, my child. Little things 
may be irksome or irritating, but they are always trivial 
and never really important. What exactly do you 
mean?” asked Lucius Carey, with an air of infinite pa¬ 
tience and forbearance. 

“Pam means has he any queer little habits that might 
annoy her?” put in Mrs. Carey eagerly. 

“No, I don’t!” cried Pamela, stifling a tendency to 
hysterical laughter. 

“Then what do you mean, Pamela?” 


MARRIAGE BY POST 


19 


Two perturbed faces regarded her. This was not the 
way in which they had expected her to receive such a 
gift from heaven as a proposal of marriage. 

Pamela, looking from one to the other, was struck 
anew by the resemblance of her father to a horse, and her 
mother to an owl. She gave a little nervous giggle, 
swiftly checked, suddenly hating herself for her untimely 
flippancy. 

“I don’t know,” she answered lamely. 

“I should think you didn’t!” said Mrs. Carey, with an 
attempt at severity, which the wonder and excitement 
of the news melted after an instant. “Oh, Pam, to think 
of your getting married after all! Darner will make 
the most satisfactory settlements. He’s doing awfully 
well at his engineering job in India. He has his life 
heavily insured, he says. A splendid settlement!” Her 
rosy face beamed. Her round eyes were suddenly 
suffused with happy tears. 

“It would be an untold relief to my mind to think that 
one of you was comfortably provided for,” said Lucius 
Carey, in a broken voice. “Farming doesn’t pay nowa¬ 
days. Young Jan, of course, has her nursing. If you 
were married that would leave only three to provide for.” 

“And perhaps you’d be able to do something for the 
younger girls. If you had Babs and Kitty out in In¬ 
dia they wouldn’t be long on your hands, I’m sure.” 

“And you would at least have a home to offer your 
sisters if worst came to worst.” 

“That’s the beauty of Darner’s being a relation. He’d 
never object to doing what he could for his own kith 
and kin.” 

The soft, persistent antiphon beat like brazen gongs 
upon Pam’s brain, bewildering her. A fierce, unwonted 


20 


STOLEN HONEY 


desire to assert her own personality seized her, arming 
her for protest. She got up suddenly, still clasping her 
letter. 

“Then you urge me to marry a man whom I don’t 
know, and who doesn’t know me, so that I may make a 
comfortable home for the girls later on?” she demanded. 

“Pam! There’s no urging. Aren’t we leaving it en¬ 
tirely to you?” Mrs. Carey’s voice rang reproachfully. 

“God forbid that I should force any child of mine into 
an unwelcome marriage!” ejaculated Mr. Carey, in hurt 
surprise. “But it’s rather absurd of you to persist in 
saying that you and Darner don’t know each other, Pam. 
Why, he’s your own cousin, and he spent a month with 
us ten years ago!” 

“I was a child then!” Pamela cried. “And we don't 
know each other. Not the real me or the real him.” She 
stopped abruptly. 

Lucius Carey shook his head disapprovingly and 
waved a protesting hand. 

“Ah, these days of introspection and self-analysis!” 
he sighed. “When I was young we were content to take 
things as they came, simply and naturally. We did not 
want to dissect everything, to probe incessantly beneath 
the surface. We had no desire to ‘tear a passion to 
tatters’!” 

“Hadn’t you?” asked Pamela, in a queer tone. “Per¬ 
haps you forget. ” 

She turned towards the door. Her mother’s voice 
followed her with an unwonted asperity. 

“Where are you going to, Pam?” 

“To my room. I want to think—this—over.” 

“Yes, think things over, my dear,” said Mr. Carey 
judicially. “And remember, Pam, that it is a matter 
entirely for yourself to decide.” 


MARRIAGE BY POST 


21 


“Entirely, Lucius ?” queried Mrs. Carey, with an odd 
inflection in her voice. 

“Yes, entirely, Janet. I am quite confident that Pam 
will make a wise decision.” 

“That’s more than I am,” said Pamela abruptly. 

She left the room, closing the door behind her with a 
quiet finality that held more of protest than Kitty’s bang. 

Janet Carey looked across the desk at her husband, 
her face working. 

“Wasn’t it disappointing, the way she took it?” she 
exclaimed. “I declare, children are nothing but a worry 
and annoyance from beginning to end!” 

She laid her head on her outstretched arms and began 
to cry. Lucius Carey had not seen her give way like 
this since her son’s death. He leaned over the desk and 
patted the heaving shoulder nearest him. 

“There, there, my dear, don’t cry,” he said soothingly. 
“Pamela is not a fool.” 

“Ah, Lucius!” she choked, gulped and sat up, her 
cheeks wet and blotched. “I’m afraid she’s as romantic 
as I was at her age.” 

“Nonsense, my dear!” returned her husband, with a 
dry chuckle. “At Pamela’s age you were the mother of 
five children, and all your romance was over.” 

Mrs. Carey dried her eyes and smiled—an illuminating 
smile that gave unexpected character to her plump face. 
“ Sometimes I’m not quite sure that it’s all over yet,” 
she said very softly. “Though Heaven knows, Lucius, 
that I often wonder if you’re not more aggravating than 
all the children put together!” 

“Sometimes I think the same of you, Janet. Still I 
wouldn’t change you for any other woman in the world.” 
Mr. Carey got up stiffly and went round to where his 
wife sat. 


22 


STOLEN HONEY 


He put his arm round her, half-shamefacedly. She 
looked up at him, her eyes still swimming. Awkwardly 
she lifted herself up out of her chair and laid her wet 
cheek against his. 

“Nor I you for any other man,” she whispered. 

Suddenly her first qualm pierced her. By urging 
Pamela into an arranged marriage was she not robbing 
her of all this, that half-passionate, half-maternal love 
which is, perhaps, the highest expression of married 
happiness for a woman? For a moment she felt vaguely 
troubled, vaguely conscience-stricken at the thought. 
Then, because she was an unimaginative woman and had 
few moments of real vision, she brushed the pricking 
doubts aside. Like many another middle-aged woman 
who has married for love, she saw no drawback to less 
romantic unions for her children. 

She moved away from where she and Lucius stood 
rather awkwardly together, a little uncomfortable at 
their unusual plunge into sentiment. 

“I hope to goodness Pam will have her hair dry by 
lunch time,” she said, with a sharpness due to the doubt 
so hastily dismissed. 


CHAPTER III 


PAMELA SHUTS THE DOOR ON ROMANCE 

Pamela, her unopened letter safe in the seclusion ol her 
pocket, fled up the stairs as if she were pursued, hoping 
with a fervour that almost turned desire to prayer that 
she might not meet one of the girls on her way to sanc¬ 
tuary. 

It was a pleasant habit of the younger Careys to rele¬ 
gate all tiresome duties to Pamela on the plea that the 
performance of such was “the privilege of the eldest!” 
Long ago she had claimed one real privilege—a room to 
herself. She felt more thankful than ever at the thought 
of it now: it was the one place where she might 
sometimes be alone. It loomed before her as a well in 
the desert to the thirsty traveller. 

She sped breathlessly along the empty corridor. She 
was almost there. Her hand was actually on the door¬ 
handle when Kitty pounced on her from behind and 
caught her arm. 

“Pam, what is it? You’ve got to tell me.” 

“I can’t. It’s—nothing,” gasped Pamela. 

Kitty flung back her head in scorn. 

“Do you take me for a baby or an idiot? It’s a very 
funny nothing that makes you look like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like—like an excited banshee!” exclaimed Kitty. 
“All eyes and gaping mouth in a white face. Don’t tell 
me again that it’s nothing!” 

23 


24 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Well, it’s everything, then?” cried Pamela. “Let 
me go, Kitty. You’ll know soon enough.” 

She jerked her arm away, opened the door, darted 
inside and closed and locked it in the disappointed girl’s 
face. 

“Very well, then, Miss Pamela! Keep your old 
secret! I’m sure I don’t want to hear it!” called Kitty 
childishly through the keyhole. 

Pamela took no notice. She stood for a moment just 
inside the door, panting and glancing round the dear 
familiar room as if she had never seen it before. 

It was bare and comfortless according to modern 
standards of luxury. The stained floor had but strips 
of carpet near bed and dressing-table; but the wardrobe, 
chest-of-drawers, wash-stand, and round-framed mirror 
were of beautifully polished mahogany, and the jug and 
basin stood out against the cream distempered walls with 
the rich glow of quaint-patterned iron-stone china. The 
open window looked across the yard to the kitchen gar¬ 
den. From it Pamela could keep an eye on her hetero¬ 
geneous assortment of fowls who picked and scratched 
or waddled among the cobble-stones below. 

She drew forward a creaking basket-chair and set it 
with its back to the window. Hastily unpinning the 
towel from her head, she shook her hair free and sat 
down in the sunshine to dry it. 

Then she took the letter from her pocket and really 
looked at it for the first time. 

The superscription pleased her both in manner and 
matter. There was character in the firm down strokes 
and a hint of personality in the formation of the letters. 
The clarity of the address left no doubt as to whom the 
letter was intended for. In some subtle way it ex¬ 
pressed the very thought which had risen with such 


PAMELA SHUTS DOOR ON ROMANCE 25 

blindfold self-confidence to Damer Langrishe’s mind as 
he wrote it: 

“I am taking no risks!” 

Pamela sat there hesitant, one finger slipped under the 
flap of the envelope, watching her dreams take flight. 
Like most young women of her age, she had had tenta¬ 
tive friendships, fugitive fancies which, meaning noth¬ 
ing, had led to nothing: but always at the back of her 
mind, throughout the days of petty worries, hard work 
and little nagging economies, had lurked the hope of the 
big thing, the real thing coming to her at last. The glow 
of possible romance had irradiated the greyness of mo¬ 
notony and lent an iridescence to routine. 

With the opening of this letter, the door to romance 
would be closed. There could be no glow, no iridescence 
about a prosaic proposal like this: a purely business 
proposition, she told herself scornfully, letting the letter 
fall in her lap and flicking it with a disdainful finger. 

Was this to be the end of her dreams? This unro¬ 
mantic marriage, arranged as might be Biddy Clancy’s 
down in the village with a farmer from a neighbouring 
townland whom she had never even seen. How often 
had she turned up her delicate nose at such matches, 
scorning them with all the force of her cherished dreams, 
her secret ineffable visions? Was it possible that she, 
Pamela Carey—already, though she did not realize it, 
looked upon with a slight contemptuous pity by the said 
villagers, who wondered among themselves, “When at all 
would poor Miss Pam be going off?”—could descend 
from the heights on which she, albeit unconsciously, had 
stood, to this sordid mating? 

Yet, even as she fenced with herself, evading decision, 
she knew in her inmost heart that choice was already 
made: knew that it had been made for her by her 


26 


STOLEN HONEY 


mother’s round worried face, the look of eager relief in 
her father’s eyes, the momentary straightening of his 
bent shoulders, as of a burden being lifted from them. 

If this thing meant so much to them—the door of 
Romance shut with a clang! Pamela tore the envelope 
open and took out the key which locked it. 

It never occurred to her that that which locks can also 
open. No such easy consolation came to her mind as she 
read the terse sentences eagerly, looking for something 
to reassure or to repel, she did not quite know which. 

There was little enough in the letter: 

“My dear Pamela” (it ran, plunging at once into the 
heart of the matter). “Will you marry me? 

“I know that I am asking a great thing of you, especi¬ 
ally as I cannot plead a deep love as my excuse. Still, if 
you will do me the honour of being my wife, I will do 
my best, so help me, God, to see that you never regret it. 

“If I could only see you face to face my wooing would 
not be so bald, but words are meaningless things, and 
anyhow, I have no skill in juggling with them. We may, 
at least, if you consent, start our married life on a basis 
of mutual friendship and respect, which I feel sure will 
soon ripen, on my part, to a very real and lasting affection. 

“Will you trust me as I shall trust you, and come out 
to me in October? You need not be afraid, Pam. I 
shall take good care of you. 

“Cable me your answer and I shall at once make ar¬ 
rangements for your escort. 

“Dido, I am sure, will appreciate your companionship 
as warmly as will 

“Yours in all sincerity, 

“DAMER LaNGRISHE.” 

“At any rate, he doesn’t pretend anything,” breathed 


PAMELA SHUTS DOOR ON ROMANCE 27 

Pamela on a sigh of relief. ‘‘And, thank God, he makes 
no attempt to bribe me! He's an honest man. A 
straightforward man, and I always liked his nose and 
the shape of his head!" 

She sent her mind back through the years searching 
for the face of this, the first man who had ever really 
wanted to marry her: peering with that strangely altered 
point of view from which a woman regards a man who 
has suddenly turned from friend to lover. 

Out of the past it leaped at her with a startling clarity: 
square, rugged, humorous, nearly always a glint of 
laughter in the light blue eyes. Langrishe had laughed a 
good deal while he was at Carrigrennan. Its crowd of 
wild, high-spirited youngsters had amused him, and he 
had been almost a boy amongst them. 

Pamela had a kaleidoscopic vision of tennis, bathing, 
picnics, of all the sweets in Moviddy being brought up; 
of a leggy, skinny, dark-eyed Dido, for ever tumbling 
into mischief and being helped out again; of long sunny 
days filled to the brim with fun and frolic; of a great 
blank and quiet when the Langrishes had gone away. 
Looking back, she suddenly realized how small a place 
Cousin Helena claimed in the retrospect. 

She tried to remember more vividly, but could recap¬ 
ture only a faint recollection of a fair, faded woman, 
aloof and a little supercilious-—‘‘put on," as was the 
Carey word for any affectation—whom Dad and Mother 
were left to entertain. Two irrelevant fragments ot 
memory flashed back: one, that Cousin Helena had worn 
a hat with streamers—which was the last word in 
“put-on-ness,” to the country youngsters—the other, 
her languid acceptance of Darner's unfailing attentions. 

Pamela recalled, with a quick flush, her girlish indigna¬ 
tion over one little episode, when on one of their rambles 


28 


STOLEN HONEY 


Darner had picked a cluster of honeysuckle, faint rose 
and cream trumpets, sending forth their fairy music in 
sweetness, and given it to his wife on their return. 

She had taken the perfumed sprays and dropped them 
on the ground after one sniff. 

“You know I don’t like these strongly scented things,” 
she had said. 

“I’m sorry,” he returned. “Honeysuckle has al¬ 
ways seemed to me one of the best of the country 
smells.” 

“I like it, daddy!” Dido had cried, and rescuing the 
disdained blossoms the child had stuck them, one by one, 
round the crown of her shady hat. 

Pamela had loved her for it and hated Cousin Helena. 
Forgotten for ten years, it was strange how the little 
incident still had power to sting her to resentment. 

“But Cousin Helena’s dead. I mustn’t think ill of 
her now,” she mused, putting a hand to her hot cheek, 
and shaking out her hair. “And Darner wants to marry 
me. Why me? Why on earth did he choose me and 
not some one whom he really knew?” 

She took up the letter again and read it through for 
the second time, feeling as if in her first hasty perusal 
she must have missed some clue to the reason for his in¬ 
explicable choice. 

One sentence stood out newly: a sentence which had 
flowed almost without volition from Langrishe’s pen; 
a sentence which, in its very simplicity, suddenly ap¬ 
pealed to the girl more than anything else in the letter: 

“You need not be afraid, Pam. I shall take good 
care of you ” 

He certainly had taken good care of Cousin Helena; 
he would be sure to take good care of her, too, if- 

Once one had banished dreams and visions, and shut 



PAMELA SHUTS DOOR ON ROMANCE 29 


the door on golden-veiled Romance, there was something 
rather comforting in that assurance. 

In all her twenty-eight years Pamela Carey could never 
remember having been taken care of. When she was 
little there was always a baby to help to look after. 
When she came back from school there were her father 
and mother with a dozen claims and a flock of younger 
ones to be considered. It was “the privilege of the eld¬ 
est” to look after the little ones; to give up, once she 
came to years of discretion, little treats, little pleasures, 
which meant so much more to the younger girls, Mrs. 
Carey declared. 

“You won’t mind, Pam? After all, you’ve had your 
fling!” 

What a mild, what a deadly uninteresting fling it had 
been! 

A little hunting, a few dances, a good many tennis- 
parties—and then the cataclysm of war, which had taken 
toll of Pamela’s girlhood, as of so many others. With 
it, always the need for economy, always the burden of 
debt. 

She looked once again at the letter with a tightening 
of her soft mouth, a sparkle of defiance in her blue eyes. 

“Aren’t they queer?” she thought to herself. “They 
think it’s perfectly all right, just because Darner is well 
off and a relation! They never imagine for a moment 
that we may be poles apart in everything that counts. 
Darner doesn’t either. He’s just as bad as they are. 
Can I do it? Dare I?” She hid her hot face in her 
hand, her mind still filled with resentful wonder at the 
attitude of her parents. “Those two, who admittedly 
married for love, think any man is good enough for me, 
just because he happens to be a good match! 

“Everyone else will think just the same. The girls 


30 


STOLEN HONEY 


will probably envy me, think how lucky I am. I don’t 
believe that anyone but myself will see the sordidness of 

it all. While I-” She dropped her hands from her 

face and looked round the room with the questing, 
frightened eyes of; a trapped animal. Suddenly her 
mood changed as she tried to visualize the result of a 
refusal of Darner’s offer. 

“They’d think me mad, of course. Mother would 
say sorrowfully, ‘Well, Pam, I am disappointed in you!’ 
Dad would look more bent and worn than ever. ‘Far 
be it from me to force any child of mine into a distaste¬ 
ful marriage, but-’ It’s that ‘but’ I couldn’t stand. 

It would be always there—always!—like a sign-post 
pointing to what might have been, until I become a real 
old maid, grinding my life out here, always pulling the 
devil by the tail, and waiting for what would never hap¬ 
pen, most likely!” 

She rose abruptly and began to brush out the sun- 
warm tangles of her hair. The even strokes of the 
brush helped her to return to her normal poise. 

“After all, a home of my own and a man to take care 
of me aren’t to be despised,” she thought. “Here am 
I, always wanting something to happen, and now, when 
something really exciting and thrilling and adventurous 
happens, I’m half afraid to take advantage of it. What 
is the use of waiting for the best? Isn’t it better to 
make the most of the second-best? How many people 
ever get the big thing, the real thing? If they do, they 
hide it pretty well! Most people only just jog along 
—trot-trot, trot-trot. Darner and I will jog along, too, 
on our quiet nags, Friendship and Respect. No wide¬ 
winged Pegasus for us!” She gave a half-rueful little 
laugh, and brushed her hair until it stood out like a dark 
silky nimbus. 


PAMELA SHUTS DOOR ON ROMANCE 31 


She felt very old, very worldly-wise, as she stood 
there, nerving herself to do the obvious, the expected 
thing, but in reality she looked younger than usual with 
the veil of her hair softening the rather thin contours of 
her face. 

“But I, being poor, have only dreams,” she quoted 
softly to herself. “’Tisn’t as if I could do anything if 
I went out into the world to earn my bread. It’s only a 
mother’s help I’m fit for, and I’m of more use as that 
here. Poor mother! 

“ ‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’ 
Well, she’s trodden on them so heavily, now, that they’re 
dead once for all!” 

It was not for nothing that Darner Langrishe had 
deduced a sense of duty in Lucius Carey’s eldest daugh¬ 
ter. It was the silver cord that bound together the 
bundle of moods and impulses, faults and virtues that 
went to make the tangled temperament of Pamela. 

It held now, as it was to hold throughout her life, 
whether her conception of that great grey angel were 
mistaken or not. 

She was late for luncheon. The family was seated 
when she entered, an old Panama hat crammed well 
down on her head. 

Mrs. Carey looked up at her apprehensively. 

“Why, Pam, where have you been?” 

“Down to the village,” Pamela answered, slipping 
into her place at table. 

“What on earth were you doing at the village?” 

“Burning my boats,” said Pamela shortly. 

“Lucius!” Mrs. Carey looked at her husband in nerv¬ 
ous appeal. “Do you know what she means?” 

Mr. Carey glanced towards his daughter, a quick fear 
in his heart. 


3 2 


STOLEN HONEY 


Pam had at times acted very impulsively, had been 
difficult to influence, to deter. 

“Please explain yourself, Pamela,” he said, his quiet 
tone a trifle strained. 

A quiver of excitement pulsed round the table. 

“I should have thought my meaning was obvious.” 
The girl’s voice rang clear, and a little hard. “If you 
must have it put into bald English, I have been sending 
a cablegram to Darner Langrishe.” 

The tension grew almost palpable. 

“What did you say, Pam?” Mrs. Carey’s whisper 
was nearly inaudible, each eyebrow rounded to an arch 
of anxiety. 

Mr. Carey said nothing, but the hand which held the 
carving-knife clutched its ivory handle so tightly that 
the knuckles stood out white and sharp. 

One glance was enough for Pamela. Here was her 
freedom of choice, her perfect liberty to make her own 
decision. She almost laughed aloud at the thought. 
Why, the matter had been decided before she ever 
stepped across the threshold of the study. She tilted 
her head high. 

“I said that I would marry him, of course,” she an¬ 
swered. 


CHAPTER IV 


BURNT BOATS 

The news of Pamela Carey’s engagement spread through¬ 
out the county with almost as inexplicable a swiftness 
as if the birds of the air had carried the matter. 

Indeed, in Ireland, a prospective marriage has that 
same subtle power of attraction which a shoal of fry 
possesses for the sea-bird. 

One moment, and the sea is calmly hyaline; the next, 
it is crisped by an infinitesimal silver multitude, and out 
of the void swoop flurries of wings, white, grey and 
brown, while up from below jerk the snaky black heads 
of cormorants, impelled by the mysterious hunting in¬ 
stinct. 

So, into the eventless monotony of days at Carrigren- 
nan eddied an endless succession of visitors, to wonder, 
to congratulate, to envy, perhaps even secretly to decry. 

“After all, Pam Carey is getting on. She must be 
thirty at least. She’d be glad to take anyone now, let 
alone a man old enough to be her father,” whispered 
Dolly Walters, to her friend, Minnie Ashton; a murmur 
fraught with all the disappointment of years of frus¬ 
trated matrimonial hopes. 

Pamela found herself a centre of attraction for the 
first time since the Hunt Ball, at which she had made 
her debut; and being but twenty-eight, with an enthu¬ 
siasm or two still uncurled was human enough to enjoy 
the novel sensation. Yet at times it jarred upon some 
33 


STOLEN HONEY 


34 

inner sense of delicacy, crudely, almost unbearably. 

“It’s positively indecent, the fuss they make,” she 
said one day to Kitty, who, being the last of her babies, 
was in some ways nearer to her heart than any of the 
other sisters. “You’d think that no one in the world had 
ever got engaged before. And a marriage of conven¬ 
ience at that!” 

“Oh, Pam, how can you say such a thing?” 

“Well, what else is it?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Kitty admitted reluctantly. 
“But nothing as horrid as that sounds. ’Tisn’t as if 
Darner wasn’t a relation, and you hadn’t known him all 
your life-” 

“Everyone harps on the fact of his being a relation, 
as if he were the whole table of affinities rolled into one.” 
interrupted Pamela crossly. “Whereas, he’s only dad’s 
second cousin once removed and scarcely a relation at 
all. I don’t believe that second cousins count anywhere 
but in Ireland.” 

“Don’t they?” said Kitty dubiously, looking at this 
unfamiliar Pam with wondering blue eyes. 

Suddenly she sidled up to her in the old, caressing, 
baby way, rubbing her soft cheek against her sister’s 
coaxingly. “Sure, it’s not in earnest you are, Pam, 
about poor Darner? It is a comfort to have him a re¬ 
lation and not a stranger, isn’t it? And you do like him 
a little, don’t you?” 

“Of course I like him,” cried Pam hotly. “Noth¬ 
ing in the world would induce me to marry him if I 
didn’t.” 

“Then that’s that,” cried Kitty with a relieved hug. 

“Oh, is it?” murmured Pam darkly. 

“Now Pam-” 

“Oh, very well, then.” 


BURNT BOATS 


35 


What Pamela could not explain to anybody, could not 
even put into words to herself, was a vague, troubled 
feeling, as of holy places rudely trodden in, high sancti¬ 
ties desecrated, golden possibilities tarnished by this pro¬ 
saic marriage she was making. 

When Kitty conjured her to come downstairs and see 
the lovely bebe crochet that Mary Clancy had brought, 
she felt as if she had sold her great birthright of love for 
a yard of Irish lace. 

Yet she went, at once paradoxically hesitant and eager. 
To her, who rarely had new clothes, and never enough 
of them, this sudden abundance was like a wild dream 
come true. The stark fact of her marriage, her reluc¬ 
tant sin against love, was clothed in a richness that hid 
for the moment anything ugly or elemental. 

The trappings—Darner’s ring, a dewdrop-clear half- 
hoop of diamonds; his cable: “Thank you, my dear,” 
which reached her in an incredibly short time after she 
had despatched her own thrilled her in spite of herself. 
In some foolish way she felt glad that he had said “my 
dear” instead of just “dear.” She could not have told 
whether it was the opulence implied by the lavish use of 
the unnecessary word or the sense of quiet protectiveness 
suggested by the possessive pronoun. She just liked it, 
that was all. 

It and the ring, which she could not help feeling 
looked rather incongruous on her useful little brown 
hand, added to her temporary sense of importance. 

Pamela was clear-eyed enough to realize the transience 
of her position. She had seen, over and over again, 
among her own acquaintances, how quickly the glamour 
of the bridal merges into the quiet background of every¬ 
day married life. She had not yet sufficient experience 
to know that it is then that the real human drama begins, 


36 


STOLEN HONEY 


with its clash of temperaments, its mergings, its diver- 
gencies. 

Yet at times some swift foreboding would pierce the 
cloud of illusion in which she enwrapped herself. 

After one such shaft of illumination she sought her 
mother. 

The creases in Janet Carey’s plump face had broad¬ 
ened to smiles, the arch of her eyebrows rounded to a 
pitying sympathy for those other mothers whose daugh¬ 
ters were not making such admirable matches as her 
own. For in her Alnaschar-visions she saw a five-fold 
vista of white-robed brides, beginning excellently with 
Pamela and ending brilliantly with Kitty. 

These iridescent bubbles Pamela broke with the care¬ 
less touch of reality. 

She found her mother in the big cool pantry off the 
hall, covering jampots with the quickness of long prac¬ 
tice. The fitting on of those white covers offered no 
obstacle to the dreaming of dreams, which was Mrs. 
Carey’s deliberate amusement by day and her subcon¬ 
scious solace at night. She looked up now, her whole 
face a startled question mark, at Pamela’s abrupt en¬ 
trance. 

“Mother,” the girl demanded, without preface or pre¬ 
liminary. “Am I doing right in marrying Darner with¬ 
out loving him?” 

Mrs. Carey’s hazel eyes blinked at the suddenness of 
the thrust; but ever since the day of Darner’s first let¬ 
ter, and Pamela’s subsequent “queerness,” she had been 
on the lookout for some such question as this. 

“Perfectly right, Pam darling,” answered the woman 
who had threatened to starve herself to death if she were 
not allowed to marry Lucius Carey, in those long-ago 
days, a penniless younger son with no prospect of ever 


BURNT BOATS 


37 


succeeding to the broad acres of Carrigrennan. “You 
may not be passionately in love with dear Darner-” 

“Whom you used to call ‘an ugly, red-headed devil’ 
before there was any possibility of his becoming your 
son-in-law!” flashed Pamela. 

“Pam! That’s not the way to speak to your mother! 
Darner may not be a beauty, but he’s a good, trustworthy 
man, and a gentleman, and you’re a lucky girl to get 
him.” 

“How do you know, mother?” 

“Know what?” 

“That Darner’s a good trustworthy man?” 

“Ah, now, Pam, you’re being tiresome,” said Mrs. 
Carey, striving after patience. “Isn’t he your own 
father’s second cousin, and wasn’t he staying here for a 
month a couple of years ago?” 

“Ten years ago.” 

“What’s ten years, if it comes to that? The best 
way in the world to get to know a person is to stay in the 
house with him.” 

“Darner may be quite different now from what he 
was ten years ago. I am.” 

“Ah, no, he’s not,” returned Mrs. Carey, ignoring the 
personal challenge. “Men of his age don’t change like 
that. Besides, we’ve known him always. Isn’t he-” 

“Bounded on the north, south, east and west by that 
blessed second-cousinship!” muttered Pamela with a 
rebellious flash of her deep blue eyes. 

Their spark set alight a fire of apprehension in Mrs. 
Carey. 

“Pam! You can’t draw back now,” she cried, 
alarmed, dropping a moistened cover. 

“No. I can’t draw back now,” returned Pamela 
slowly, feeling, not for the first time, as if she were a 



38 


STOLEN HONEY 


captive in that torture-cell of medieval imagination, 
whose walls close upon their victim gradually, almost 
imperceptibly, day by day, hour by hour, until- 

And yet, so complex, so infinite in its inconsistencies 
is the human mind that, even as she visioned the nar¬ 
rowing walls, her ring seemed to catch a gleam of sun¬ 
light, and show her a hidden door of escape into a wider 
world—or was it merely into another form of prison? 

That was the thought that fretted Pamela when she 
had time to think; the uncertainty, the gravity of the 
step which she was about to take, unillumined as it was 
by any light other than the clear, pale ray of duty. 

At times she almost doubted the existence of even that 
uncompromising gleam; wondering if she were indeed 
fulfilling her duty towards herself by making such a 
marriage. 

But between the preparation of her trousseau, and the 
receiving and returning of calls, she had little time for 
introspection, tossed as she was from wave to wave of 
successive excitements. 

She alone had qualms. Congratulations continued to 
shower upon her. Presents came pouring in, often in 
duplicate, trifles, treasures, personal or otherwise, which 
would have delighted her heart had she received even 
a few of them a year or so earlier. 

“I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but you can’t ap¬ 
preciate them properly when they come in multitudes like 
this,” she said ruefully, as she unpacked her third silver 
hand mirror, and thought how she would have loved it 
had it arrived when she had tried to start a silver toilet- 
set on her twenty-first birthday; a set which had never 
materialised further than the parental comb and brush 
and the silver-mounted pin cushion which Randall and 
the girls had given her. 


BURNT BOATS 


39 


To crown all came a check and a mandate from Great- 
Aunt Lucilla Carey, an aloof old lady, who lived with 
a maid and a parrot in a flat near Kensington Gardens, 
and whose jointure had to be paid out of the dwindling 
resources of Carrigrennan, no matter what happened. 

“If you will come over to me and buy your trousseau 
in London I shall give you fifty pounds towards it. If 
not, you must be content with the customary fish-slice,” 
the letter ran. 

“I won't go,” Pamela declared. “I don’t like being 
bargained with like that. She may keep her old fish¬ 
slice, too. I don’t want it either!” 

“No, you don’t. You’ve got two already,” said Kitty 
sympathetically. “But fifty pounds, Pam!” 

“Fifty pounds!” sighed Janet Carey. “I’m sure it’s 
very kind of Aunt Lucilla. You mustn’t do anything 
to offend her, Pam. Your father was called after her, 
and it was through the death of her two poor boys in the 
Boer War that Lucius came in for the property. We 
mustn’t forget that, though I must say her jointure is a 
tax.” 

Pamela restrained with an effort her impatience at the 
convolutions of her mother’s brain, and said nothing. 

“Of course, it will be an awful disappointment my not 
being able to go up to Dublin and choose your things 
with you as we had planned,” Mrs. Carey went on plain¬ 
tively. “And I’m sure I don’t know what the Disneys, 
and the Walters, and the Ashtons will say at not seeing 
your trousseau, Pam.” 

“That decides me,” flashed Pam suddenly. “If the 
victim is to be decked for the altar, at least, she may 
have the satisfaction of knowing that her sacrificial robes 
won’t be fingered by the spectators. The thought of 
Minnie Ashton and Dolly Walters poking about my 


40 


STOLEN HONEY 


things, and wondering why I don’t have Valenciennes 
and Cluny instead of Irish crochet makes me sick.” 

“Really, Pam, you’re very queer!” sighed Mrs. Carey. 
“To hear you talk anyone would think-” 

“They may,” retorted Pamela, who certainly seemed 
to have shed the sheath of her old patient, sunny self to 
stand revealed in a rather prickly new one. “And I’ll 
be queer! I’ll go to Great-Aunt Lucilla and get my 
frocks and hats in London!” 

“Oh, Pam, and we’ll never see them!” wailed Kitty. 
“I was looking forward to trying on all your things!” 

“Never mind, Kitten,” said Pamela, softening sud¬ 
denly. “I’ll send you patterns and sketches of every¬ 
thing.” 

But Kitty’s cloud was too black to admit of even the 
tiniest slit of light. 

“It’s you and Jan are the lucky ones,” she said bro¬ 
kenly, tears welling in her eyes, and threatening to roll 
down her wild-rose cheeks. “She’ll be helping you to 
choose things on her afternoons off from the hospital.” 

“Of course she will. I never thought of that. Dear 
old Jan!” Pamela’s spirits rose unaccountably. 

“ ’Twill mean losing you a long time sooner than we 
need,” objected Kitty. 

“Not so long,” consoled Pamela. “Sure, it won’t 
take any time to buy a few frocks and hats. Cheer up, 
Kitten. I’ll send you a jumper from London that will 
take the curl out of Dolly Walters’ hair with envy.” 

“Oh, will you, Pam? You’re a darling.” 

Even as Kitty hugged her gratefully, Pamela knew 
that, sharp as the pang would be at parting from all that 
she had known and loved in her short life, there was a 
certain balm in the thought that this trying period of 
waiting was not to be unduly prolonged. 


BURNT BOATS 


4i 


Already she was gradually letting Madge slip into Her 
place as elder daughter of the house. She had relin¬ 
quished her fowls to Babs and Kitty. Imperceptibly she 
was loosing the innumerable threads which bound her 
to her home. Although it would always have its inevi¬ 
table corner in her warm heart, she knew that she was 
no longer as necessary to Carrigrennan as she had been 
but one brief month ago. 

Already she was preparing to slip her old mooring, 
and, shooting “long sail lengthening cord/’ to fare forth 
into the unknown! 


CHAPTER V 


PAMELA CROSSES HER RUBICON 

“So this is Pamela!” The thin, old voice held ap¬ 
praisal and a hint of disappointment. 

“Yes, this is Pam, Aunt Lucilla!” Young Janet 
Carey, trim and plump in her nurse’s uniform, with her 
mother’s eyes and arching brows, took instinctively the 
part of showman. 

Pamela, feeling that she was but a sorry exhibit after 
a bad sea-crossing and a long train journey, made haste 
to answer the old lady’s tone and eyes rather than her 
words. 

“No, it’s not Pamela, Aunt Lucilla,” she declared in 
her soft brogue. “It’s a wretched, pea-green, seasick 
creature who won’t have an atom of self-respect until 
she’s had a bath and changed. It’s not Pamela at all.” 

For a moment, the opaque, dark eyes peered at Pamela 
out of the small, wrinkled face, which looked yellow as 
old wax beneath the banded absurdity of a smooth black 
wig. Then old Mrs. Carey’s wrinkles relaxed from the 
severe lines into which her scrutiny had graven them, and 
her pale lips stretched into a semi-toothless smile. 

“In that case run away and make yourself presentable 
before I introduce you to Boadicea,” she commanded. 

“Boadicea?” Pamela echoed. 

Janet laughed and looked towards the dark corner 
behind the old lady’s chair. 

The room was crowded with heavy, old-fashioned fur- 
42 


PAMELA CROSSES HER RUBICON 43 


niture. Looped curtains of green rep and cream lace 
shrouded the windows, through whose half-drawn Vene¬ 
tian blinds filtered a greenish dusk that defied the Octo¬ 
ber sunshine without. 

“Boadicea is my parrot,” said old Mrs. Carey. 

A dry chuckle from the corner betrayed to Pamela’s 
questing eyes the unsuspected presence of a large grey 
parrot on a black stand. Bird and perch would have 
completely merged into the obscurity of their background 
save for a gleam of crimson on the parrot’s tail and the 
winking brilliance of a nickel seed cup on either side of 
the perch. 

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl, turning quickly from the 
idle intensity of the bird’s gaze. “I agree with you, 
Aunt Lucilla. I’m not fit to face that eye just yet.” 

A thin chuckle from the old lady echoed the bird’s 
mirthless effort. It seemed to Pamela, with her quick 
sense of likeness, that an extraordinary resemblance ex¬ 
isted between the two beaked faces with their long un¬ 
wavering gaze from eyes grown old with looking on life. 

“Janet will show you where the bathroom is. There 
is no need to trouble Harriet. She has enough to do, as 
it is, waiting on Boadicea and me. Mrs. Bent will have 
luncheon ready by the time you’ve had your bath. If 
you were sea-sick you’ll need it.” 

“I will. Thanks very much, Aunt Lucilla.” 

Pamela followed Janet down the narrow passage with 
that odd sense of unreality induced by sudden altered 
and unknown surroundings. 

It seemed months already since yesterday. Carrigren- 
nan, with its green and airy spaces, seemed very far 
away from this cramped and stuffy flat; this crowded 
seething city. 

Janet opened a door into a tiny bathroom. 


44 


STOLEN HONEY 


“I’ll turn on your bath while you undress,” she said, 
with all the cheery superiority of the trained nurse. 
“Your room’s next door.” 

Pamela, weary and travel-stained, looked at her with 
a questioning wonder. Jan had always been brisk and 
decided, but now she seemed positively to exude effi¬ 
ciency. What did she think about this forthcoming mar¬ 
riage? They had only talked family gossip since their 
meeting at Paddington, avoiding the deeper personalities 
by mutual consent. Pamela felt a waft of loneliness, a 
swift impelling desire for sympathy. But would Jan 
give it? Was she not too brisk, too shiningly self-confi¬ 
dent to admit any point of view but her own? 

Pamela dived into her suit-case for a dressing-gown, 
and began to undress rapidly. In a moment Janet re¬ 
turned. 

“Your bath won’t be ready for a few minutes,” she 
announced. “It has an old-fashioned tap which alter¬ 
nately trickles and spurts. Aunt Lucilla won’t have a 
new one put in. She hates innovations, she says.” 

“Does she?” 

“The old one at home was better, even though the 
water never would get really hot,” Janet went on mus¬ 
ingly. “Carrigrennan is a dear old place, of course. 
Heavenly for a holiday, but I’m thankful I’ve escaped. 
The life there would kill me now.” 

Suddenly she faced her sister with an odd look in her 
eyes. 

“So you’re escaping, too, Pam, in the good old tra¬ 
ditional way,” 

“Don’t, Jan,” said Pam huskily. 

She turned a pale, travel-weary face to where a shaft 
of veiled London sunshine filtered through the window. 

“Why are you doing it, then?” asked Janet sharply. 


PAMELA CROSSES HER RUBICON 45 


“Because—because-” Pamela, tired and unstrung, 

gulped hard to keep herself from crying, then blurted out 
the truth that had never permitted itself to be heard at 
Carrigrennan. “Well, just because everyone seemed 
to want it so much.” 

“Not you, yourself?” Janet’s hazel eyes fixed her, 
round and unwavering, so like, yet so unlike her 
mother’s owl-like stare that Pamela laughed almost hys¬ 
terically. 

“Oh, yes, I suppose I, too—in a way—but not like—' 
oh, don’t you understand, Jan?” cried Pamela incohe¬ 
rently. 

“I am afraid I don’t. Not that sort of weakness,” 
answered Janet uncompromisingly. “Letting oneself be 
forced into an uncongenial marriage, because other peo¬ 
ple seemed to want it.” 

“But it’s not! It’s not altogether uncongenial. 
There are lots of things I like about Darner Langrishe 
—his name, his nose, the shape of his head,” said Pam¬ 
ela, snatching with a wild desire for justification at old 
discarded reasons for her conduct. “Besides, it isn’t 
as if he weren’t a relation, as if we didn’t know all about 
him. Oh, Jan!” Hysteria seized her at her own absurd¬ 
ity, her futile inconsistency. “Don’t you see how—how 
awfully funny it all is?” She went into peals of half¬ 
sobbing laughter. 

“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Janet stiffly. “Do pull 
yourself together, Pam. Your bath must be quite ready 
now. I’ll turn it off for you, and then go. I’m on night 
duty till to-morrow, so must get a little sleep.” 

Wonder at this announcement steadied Pamela. She 
checked herself to ask: 

“Do you mean you were up all night ?” 

“Of course.” 


46 


STOLEN HONEY 


“What a selfish wretch I am to keep you all this 
time!” she cried. “It was awfully good of you to meet 
me, Jan. You must be worn out.” 

“It would take more than that to wear me out,” re¬ 
turned Janet briskly, moving towards the door. 

Pamela was aware of a sudden sense of loss at the 
disappearance of the compact little figure. She felt as 
if Janet were eluding her mentally as well as physically. 
With a new waft of home-sickness she longed for some 
contact, however brief, with the humanity which must 
be encased somewhere within the trim efficiency of her 
sister. 

“Jan!” she cried at the bathroom door. 

Janet raised a slightly flushed face from the taps. 

“Well?” she asked uncompromisingly. 

“You’re not cross with me, Jan, are you?” 

The old question of childish days slipped out, evoked 
unconsciously by the power of association. It was not 
what she had intended to say at all. 

Janet straightened herself. 

“Why should I be cross with you? Poor old Pam! 
You’re just as queer as ever!” 

But her tone was softer than her words, and she put 
her arms round her taller sister in a quick little hug that 
made Pamela want to lay her head on her shoulder and 
sob out: 

“Oh, Jan, isn’t it a lonely sort of thing to be going 
right across the world to marry a man you don’t know 
at all?” 

Yet she refrained, checked by the chilly little knowl¬ 
edge that Janet would probably reply sensibly: “You 
needn’t go unless you want to!” unwitting of the subtle 
invisible pressures which had so swiftly overcome her 
defences. 


PAMELA CROSSES HER RUBICON 47 


With the refreshment of her bath her spirits rose in¬ 
sensibly, and as she dressed in fresh clothing she found 
herself almost beginning to believe in that queerness of 
which her mother and Janet so often accused her. 

“I must be queer,” she thought. “For I didn’t like it 
at home when everyone approved of what I was doing, 
and I don’t like it now when Jan disapproves. I flew 
out at poor mother and the girls when they made a song 
about Darner’s relationship, and yet I use it now to but¬ 
tress myself to Jan! How can a person think such dif¬ 
ferent things, and all practically at the same time?” 

The puzzle of personality was beginning to display 
some of its intricacies to Pamela Carey for the first time 
in her unthinking life. 

“Is this Pamela at last?” asked old Mrs. Carey, as she 
entered the drawing-room later. 

“Almost,” Pamela admitted with a smile. 

“Very good. Boadicea, come and be introduced to 
your new relative.” The old lady stretched out a vein- 
ous wrinkled hand, on to which the parrot slowly sidled. 
“Shake hands with her, Pamela. She won’t bite.” 

“I’m not afraid.” Pamela held out a finger which the 
bird gravely clasped with one cold grey claw. 

Mrs. Carey nodded approval. “She wouldn’t do that 
if she didn’t like you. Ha! Is that your engagement 
ring? Show me the sort of diamonds Darner chose for 
you" 

Pamela, flushing, drew off her ring and placed it in a 
hand almost as clawlike as Boadicea’s; a hand on which 
flashed the sheen of some fine old gems. 

“H’m. Not bad. Good stones, if not absolutely per¬ 
fect. Get him to get you some sapphires later on, 
Pamela. They’d suit your eyes.” 

“Oh, I don’t think he could afford that,” protested the 


48 


STOLEN HONEY 


girl who had always had to look twice at a shilling before 
she spent it. 

“Rubbish! He’s got a fine engineering job, hasn’t 
he?” 

“I believe so.” 

“And no one to spend his money on but himself and a 
chit of a schoolgirl. He must have put by pots.” 

“Must he?” 

“What settlements is he making on you?” 

Pamela reddened. 

“I don’t know. I never asked.” 

Mrs. Carey looked at her sharply. 

“It’s a love-match, then, I understand?” 

“I’d rather not discuss it, if you don’t mind, Aunt 
Lucilla,” Pamela interposed, with flaming cheeks. 

“You look quite pretty with a colour,” said the old 
lady irrelevantly. “Something like what I used to be 
when I was a girl.” 

In spite of Pamela’s self-control, her great-aunt sur¬ 
prised a glance of astonishment at this announcement. 

“Oh, you needn’t imagine that I always wore a wig 
and had no teeth,” Mrs. Carey continued, shaking her 
impossibly black bandeaux. “My teeth were whiter 
than yours, and my hair just as curly. It was only when 
it all fell out after an illness that I bought my wig. A 
bald woman is an abomination before the Lord. Bald- 
headed men are natural enough. False teeth, too, if 
they want ’em, poor creatures. But not for me. I’ve 
only a few of my own left, and ‘thank Heaven they meet,’ 
as someone or other says! I don’t mind going before 
my Maker in a wig, but I will not affront Him by appear¬ 
ing in His presence with false teeth. You may laugh 
if you like, Pamela. I’d rather you did that than choke! 


PAMELA CROSSES HER RUBICON 49 


Old age is a screaming farce when you’re young, but a 
sorry jest when you approach it yourself.” 

“I don’t mean to laugh, Aunt Lucilla.” 

“Bless you, I don’t mind. You’re a true Carey, child. 
You wouldn’t wittingly hurt anyone. None of ’em 
would, bless ’em, though unwittingly they might make 
enough mischief to set a barrack by the ears! I’m one 
of ’em myself. Didn’t you know that? I married a 
cousin of my own, Robert Carey.” 

“Aunt Lucilla, what was it like? Marrying a relation, 
I mean?” Pamela snatched at the chance of first-hand 
knowledge of such a vital subject, forgetting that she 
had already demurred at discussing it. “Was it—very 
tame—unadventurous ?” 

Old Mrs. Carey chuckled until she coughed, choked 
and finally recovered herself. 

“The tamest marriage, my dear, is a surprising ad¬ 
venture, a perpetual voyage of discovery. I thought I 
knew my Robert inside-out, until I married him. On 
our honeymoon I found that I had wed a stranger. I 
had to learn him all over again. Unadventurous, in¬ 
deed ! It all depends on yourselves whether it is or not.” 
She chuckled again. “Of course, if you wish to become 
cabbages it may be tame enough, but you haven’t the cab¬ 
bage look, Pamela.” 

“Then it doesn’t count at all?” said Pamela, a trifle 
disappointedly, ignoring the negative compliment. 

“What doesn’t count? Put your points clearly, child, 
when you ask a question. Don’t wobble!” 

“Marrying a cousin.” 

“Of course, it counts, in a way. There’s a certain 
feeling of stability about it, and the satisfaction of hav¬ 
ing the same set of relations.” 


50 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Is that a satisfaction, Aunt Lucilla?” 

“Undoubtedly,” replied the old lady briskly. “No 
fear of an unfavorable verdict after inspection. They 
know the worst of you already. The best is bound to 
surprise 'em afterwards. But believe you me, my dear, 
nothing really counts beforehand. You know Darner's a 
gentleman, of course, and that’s a wonderful stand-by, 
but, mark my words, you never really know a man until 
you’re married to him, no matter if he's your cousin fifty 
times over! Even if men are all the same, in some ways, 
they’re all different in others. Each one has got his own 
particular devil tucked away somewhere inside him. 
Your future happiness will all depend on how deeply 
Darner’s is hidden, or how strongly civilization may have 
got the upper hand of him.” She glanced shrewdly at 
Pamela’s eager, disturbed face. “You’re like me. You 
have plenty of common sense. Look on your man as a 
big child fastened to a toy rein, Pamela. Keep tight 
hold on your end of it, but never let him feel the strain.” 

“Why not?” asked Pamela, in rather a small voice, 
held back by a sudden reticence from inquiring into the 
deeper inplications of her great-aunt’s words. 

“Because it will probably make him want to break 
free. Ah!” The old lady raised her head and sniffed 
like a questing hound. “I smell Mrs. Bent’s cutlets and 
mushrooms, and hear Harriet coming to tell us that 
luncheon is ready. Thank Heaven for it! When you 
come to my age, Pamela, you’ll find that the pleasures of 
the table are about the only ones left to us octogenarians.” 

The door opened, and a little, old, black-clad woman 
entered. 

“Luncheon is served, ma’am,” she said, with an air of 
silent protest, as she advanced towards her mistress, who 
waved her aside with a glitter of rings. 


PAMELA CROSSES HER RUBICON 51 


“No, Harriet, I’ll take Miss Carey’s arm to-day,” said 
the old lady, rising with some difficulty. 

A surge of mingled feelings swept through Pamela as 
she bent towards the shrunken figure. Was this the 
gracious dignity of the evening of life? Did one outlive 
all the great things, forgetting the love, joy, hope, beauty, 
grief, the pangs and ecstasies of child-birth, the awful 
realities of the death of those beloved, for a senile thrill 
at the prospect of cutlets with mushrooms for luncheon? 

Pity, disgust, apprehension, rebellion warred within 
the girl at the thought. She did not know that hers was 
the superficial view of youth and ignorance. She was 
only aware of a swift repulsion; a sick feeling that, if 
this were to be the end, life indeed was not worth living. 


CHAPTER VI 


PAMELA PEEPS INTO THE PAST 

“I’ll miss her when she goes, Boadicea. She’s a 
sweet child, and a good. She’s not as pretty as I was 
at her age, but she’s well-looking enough for a man’s sec¬ 
ond wife. He can’t expect beauty twice over, and his 
first venture faded quickly enough, Heaven knows. A 
cold piece, eaten up with self-conceit. No humanity 
about her, no warm blood.” 

“Aunt Lucilla, don’t forget that I’m here!” 

At last the murmur penetrated to where Pamela sat in 
the window. 

Mrs. Carey started. She had forgotten the girl’s 
presence, and was not at all pleased at being reminded of 
the fact. 

“I was talking to Boadicea, not you,” she returned 
sharply. 

“That’s all right then,” said Pamela, closing her eyes 
again. “I only thought-” 

“Don’t think. It’s a most pernicious habit. Half the 
mischief in the world is done by thinking,” snapped Mrs. 
Carey. Then she suddenly relented. “I may as well 
talk to you while you are here, Pamela. I’ll have enough 
of Boadicea when you’re gone.” 

“To-morrow,” murmured Pamela dreamily. 

“To-morrow? So soon? I’d forgotten!” 

The note of regret in the quavering old voice pierced 
Pamela’s apathy. She shook off her lethargy with an 

52 



PAMELA PEEPS INTO THE PAST 53 


effort, and crossing the room drew up a low chair near 
her great-aunt. 

“The time has flown since I came here,” she said. 
“You have been very good to me, Aunt Lucilla. ,, 

“I wish I had had you here oftener,” returned Mrs. 
Carey. “Hand me that sandal-wood box off the table, 
Pam. Your wedding-present is in it.” 

“Oh, but you’ve given me my wedding-present al¬ 
ready,” Pamela demurred, as she placed the box, faintly 
odorous of the East towards which her face was set, 
and beautifully inlaid with silver curves and spirals, 
on the old lady’s lap. 

“I have not. Did your mother never teach you that 
it was rude to contradict?” 

“Indeed she did, but-” 

“I’m glad you’re not making a love-match, Pam,” 
said Mrs. Carey unexpectedly, as she turned the tar¬ 
nished silver key in the sandal-wood box. 

Pamela looked up quickly, all the youth, all the 
imagination in her crying out against this wilful ob¬ 
literation of romance. 

“Why?” she asked, rather breathlessly. 

Suddenly a strange thing happened. Fire lit the 
old, dark, weary eyes; a transient gleam of youth shone 
from behind the wrinkled mask of four-score years; 
strength rounded the failing voice. 

“Because I’ve never yet seen a love match that did 
not bring sorrow with it.” 

Pamela thrust out hands of protest. 

“Oh, no! Oh, no! I’m sure you’re wrong.” 

“I know I’m right.” 

The brief glow faded, the clear voice thinned to a 
quaver. Youth was dead; slain long ago by the inex- 


54 


STOLEN HONEY 


orable years, its epitaph engraved in ever-deepening lines 
by the pitiless hand of Time. 

“Even if you are, surely it’s better—surely one might 
risk the sorrow!” cried Pamela incoherently. 

“Listen to me!” Mrs. Carey laid a thin hand on the 
girl’s arm and spoke in dry, staccato tones. “I’ve seen 
enough of this fever called love to know that it doesn’t 
last. 

“In my youth I loved a man with a fire you’ll never 
feel—and you may thank Heaven for it! 

“We were engaged, and he seemed to care as I did. 
Then he suddenly jilted me for another girl. I nearly 
died. It wasn’t worth it, Pam. He wasn’t worth it. 
No man is. Then I married Robert. Calm after a 
storm, a sunny harbour and a cargo of quiet toys to bring 
to port. My two boys made love-matches. Robin’s 
wife ran away with his best friend. Jim—well, Jim’s wife 
died after a year, with her still-born child. The experi¬ 
ment didn’t last long enough to count, but she was a 
poor wisp of a thing. No wife for my splendid boy.” 
Once again old resentments lent a momentary strength 
to the quavering tones. 

“But weren’t they happy while it lasted?” 

“Oh, happy enough, as far as it went.” 

“Then-” 

“Hsh, Pamela! You know nothing about it.” 

Pamela thought with an amused resignation: 

“Old people may be as rude as they like, but young 
people mustn’t even say ‘oh’ in the wrong place! But 
how she must have suffered! Poor Aunt Lucilla!” 

“Then there was my own girl’s tragedy. We planned 
happiness for her if we could encompass it at any cost.” 
She paused, then went on. “Lucy ran away with the 
man we had forbidden her to marry because he was a 


PAMELA PEEPS INTO THE PAST 


55 


confirmed drunkard, and she died broken-hearted, in my 
arms.” She stretched them out with a tragic gesture, 
then let them fall helplessly in her lap. 

“Aunt Lucilla!” Pamela put a warm young hand on 
the trembling old one in quick sympathy. 

Two of the slow difficult tears of old age rolled down 
the wrinkled cheeks. Mrs. Carey made no effort to wipe 
them away as she continued her indictment against love. 

“Then take poor Darner’s first marriage. A love- 
match, if ever there was one.” 

Pamela’s pulse quickened. Was Aunt Lucilla going 
to fit some more pieces into the incomplete mosaic of her 
memory. 

The hand on the old lady’s began to tremble. She took 
it away and clasped it tightly with the other to still it. 

“He was madly in love with Helena Beaton, a flaxen- 
fair creature with forget-me-not blue eyes, about as deep 
as a doll’s. Probably his adoration pleased her for a 
time.” 

“For a time, yes,” nodded Pamela to herself. 

“But she cared for only one person in the world, and 
that was herself. Neither Darner nor her skinny baby 
when she came meant anything at all to her. She had 
as much soul as a fish. Darner was different. He had 
nature in him. He wanted affection. He’ll have plenty 
to give you, Pam, if you take him the right way.” 

“What is the right way?” asked the girl very low. 

“That you’ll have to find out for yourself, like every 
other woman. You’ll have the chance of making up to 
him for the doll’s short-comings, Pam. Make a home 
for him. That’s worth doing. Better than if you were 
handicapped by the restless, selfish, blind, mad craving 
called love.” 

Seized by some uncontrollable impulse, Pamela sprang 


56 


STOLEN HONEY 


to her feet, aflame with excitement, moved to trembling, 
incoherent speech. 

“Aunt Lucilla, you haven’t proved your case at all! 
You told me about people who loved and were unhappy 
afterwards, but that wasn’t because they loved. It was 
because they loved in the wrong way. Their love wasn’t 
the big thing, the true thing that it might have been. 
You can’t prove that their sorrows were caused by love 
or that they’d have been happier if they had married with¬ 
out it. Jim’s was a love-match, and you admit that he was 
happy until his poor little wife died. My father and 
mother married for love, and I know that they’re happy 
in spite of all their worries. If there are even those 
two whom we know of, there must be scores of others 
whom we don’t know of. Take you and Uncle 
Robert.” 

“Yes. Take me and Robert,” interrupted Mrs. Carey, 
in a queer reminiscent tone, compact of as many differ¬ 
ent savours as a jar of pot-pourri. 

She veiled her eyes with her semi-transparent lids, even 
as Boadicea might draw the grey film over her own. 
Once again Pamela was struck by the odd likeness be¬ 
tween bird and woman. Then a flash of intuition pierced 
her. 

“Aunt Lucilla!” she cried passionately. “I believe 
that in your heart of hearts you’d give all your quiet 
sunny years with Uncle Robert for one day of that old 
mad joy!” 

“Nonsense, girl!” said Mrs. Carey sharply, opening 
her eyes and fixing them on Pamela’s vivid face. Then 
she closed them again, and said in a dim, faraway voice: 
“I befieve you’re right, Pam, but how in the world did 
you know?” 

For a moment Pamela was conscious of a swift thrill 


PAMELA PEEPS INTO THE PAST 57 

of triumph. Then her excitement died suddenly as a 
blown-out flame. 

“I don’t know,” she answered flatly. 

What right had she to preach the gospel of love? 
Was she not, in her own person, about to violate the 
sanctities which she had professed to reverence? Was 
she not about to trail in the dust the oriflamme which she 
had flourished so proudly in Aunt Lucilla’s face? 

She looked at her great-aunt in rather bewildered 
apology. 

“I didn’t mean to be so vehement, Aunt Lucilla,” she 
said. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not 
given to outbursts like that, you know.” 

“I know. But it’s a relief to speak the plain truth 
sometimes without any of the trappings of pretence and 
hypocrisy in which we generally muffle the poor thing. 
Now we’ll be ordinary again.” Mrs. Carey opened the 
sandal-wood box and took out a scarf of beautiful old 
lace and a little red leather case. Her withered hands 
shook as she fingered them. “These were my girl’s, 
Pam. I should like you to wear them. I hope you will 
have more happiness in your married life than she had 
in hers. Take them away, my love. Don’t thank me, 
or let me see them again. Pearls mean tears, they say. 
Well, it is better to cry than to have no tears to shed.” 

She thrust the faintly scented lace and the case of 
pearls into Pamela’s hands. 

“Take them away, my child,” she said again, in the 
merest shadow of a voice, leaning against the high back 
of her chair. 

Pamela, stilled and awed at this glimpse into a heart 
she had deemed dead, slipped out of the room, ashamed 
of her own shortness of vision, her quick conceited ig¬ 


norance. 


58 


STOLEN HONEY 


The October dusk dimmed her little room. The great 
cliff of flats opposite obscured the pale tints of the even¬ 
ing sky. Here and there in the crannied windows, which 
pierced it like martins* nests, slits and shafts of light 
gleamed from beneath drawn blinds, while less fre¬ 
quently a glowing orange square betrayed uncurtained 
casements. 

Pamela stood by her own window, pressing the lace 
with its faintly Eastern scent to her hot cheeks; finger¬ 
ing the cool string of milky pearls in a maze of mingled 
sensations. 

It was strange to think that the great block opposite 
housed innumerable people, each one with his or her 
own story, comic, tragic, or commonplace; at the least, 
a story that mattered most intensely to the maker of it. 

As Pamela stood there, crude new thoughts surging in 
her brain, two figures suddenly silhouetted themselves 
against one of the orange backgrounds, a man and a 
woman. 

They stood for a space, black and flat as if they had 
been cut out of paper. Then the outlines turned to 
profile as the man slipped an arm about the woman and 
drew her towards him. With a gesture of infinite tender¬ 
ness the woman put up her hand to the back of his head, 
and raised her face to his. He bent. Their faces met, 
merged. 

Pamela’s pulses pounded. 

“In less than a month I shall be alone in a room with 
Darner, like that. He will have the right to kiss me, 
like that, if he wants to. Can I go through with it?” 

With a jerk she pulled down the blind to shut out the 
disturbing sight, and stood in the dusk of the room with 
burning cheeks and leaping heart-beats, seeing formless, 
distorted visions. 


PAMELA PEEPS INTO THE PAST 


59 


Suddenly she lit the gas to banish them, and looked 
round the room which had become so familiar to her 
within the last ten days. 

Her larger boxes had already gone. Only her cabin 
trunk, rug-straps and hand-bag remained. She had al¬ 
most reached the end of the known which merged into 
the threshold of the unknown, from which there could be 
no turning back. For one wild moment she longed to 
cram a few necessaries into her bag, and take the night 
train back to Ireland. 

She paused on the thought, savouring its possibilities, 
agreeable and disagreeable, and found that she shrank 
irrevocably from the idea of facing her own people with 
the news that she had changed her mind. She could not 
do it. Such a course assumed the proportions of the 
impossible. She knew that they loved her, as she loved 
them, yet instinct warned her that for this one time her 
return home would be unwelcome. There was no longer 
any place at Carrigrennan for Pamela Carey. She had 
stepped out of it voluntarily. Another already had filled 
it. Such was the immutable law. The result of her first 
decision had been to set in motion a train of circum¬ 
stances which must move inevitably on to its appointed 
end. There was no going back, now or ever. Only as 
Pamela Langrishe would she be received at Carrigren¬ 
nan with open arms again. 

With a sigh that, understanding, held no reproach, she 
opened her writing-case and scanned Darner’s two letters 
to draw what courage she might therefrom. 

“I remember you a sweet, blue-eyed slip of a thing, as 
shy and wild as a young colt,” the first letter said. That 
was the one which had come with the ring. 

“I have blue eyes still, but I’m not a bit wild now,” 
she had answered. 


6o 


STOLEN HONEY 


The last letter, at the end of its instruction for the 
voyage and its description of the Mrs. Forrester who was 
to chaperon her, declared: “It will be nke to have a home 
again. Ive had a roof-tree of my own all these years, 
of course, but it takes a woman to make a home.” 

Home! Home! The word echoed reassuringly. 

“Make a home for him, Pam. That’s worth doing,” 
Aunt Lucilla had said. 

“Do the duty which, lies nearest to thee, which thou 
knowest to be a duty. Thy second duty will already 
have become clearer,” was the wholesome philosophy 
upon which Pamela Carey’s life had been unconsciously 
based. 

The fog of doubt which had frightened her had lifted 
a little, the formless phantoms fled. She had given her 
word to Darner Langrishe. How could she have thought 
even for a moment, of breaking it? He wanted her to 
make a home for him. It was up to her to do it. She 
could, too. She felt that. As fc/r love, she would give 
him what she could, the best that was in her power to 
bestow. She could at least show him that all the woman¬ 
hood of the world was not represented by Helena Beaton. 
She would, too. 


CHAPTER VII 


FAREWELL TO ENGLAND 

The tinkle of the dinner-bdl put an end to introspec¬ 
tion. Pamela hurriedly thrust the letters into the case, 
and went back to the drawing-room to offer her arm 
to her great-aunt, who did not like to be kept wait¬ 
ing. 

It seemed to her that Mrs. Carey walked a little more 
slowly, leaned on her a little more heavily than usual 
this evening. An odd regret pierced her at the thought 
that she would probably never -see her again after the 
morrow—this eccentric old kinswoman, who had hitherto 
been only a name to her, and not a very agreeable one 
at that, but to whom she had grown so strangely endeared 
during the past ten days. She felt that Aunt Lucilla 
shared her secret also, though, being so near the end of 
her days, she would scarcely sigh now for the lost 
might-have-beens. 

Mrs. Bent excelled herself this last evening. Old 
Harriet had decked the table in bridal white flowers and 
napery. The gold foil of a champagne bottle glinted 
from the gloom of the great cavernous side-board which 
filled half the room. It was Mrs. Carey’s personal cele¬ 
bration of Pamela’s nuptials. 

“Bring two more champagne glasses, Harriet!” she 
commanded. 

When the old woman brought them she turned to 
Pamela. 

“Fill them up yourself, and give one to Harriet and 
61 


62 


STOLEN HONEY 


one to Mrs. Bent. You’d like them to drink to your 
health, wouldn’t you?” 

“Indeed, I would,” cried Pamela gratefully. 

When the girl had returned from her festal errand 
Mrs. Carey peered across the table at her. 

“Why aren’t you wearing the pearls I gave you?” she 
thrust irrelevantly. 

“You said I wasn’t to let you see them again, dear Aunt 
Lucilla,” answered Pamela gently. 

“Did I? I forgot. I’m getting old, Pam. That’s 
what it is.” She fell broodingly silent. 

“Old cat! Old cat!” shrieked Boadicea suddenly, 
from behind her mistress’s chair. “There’s no fool like 
an old fool! Ha! ha! ha!” The bird broke into a peal 
of mirthless, eldritch laughter. 

Pamela was startled, but Mrs. Carey gave a wide, 
toothless smile. 

“She’s quite right. There’s no greater folly than in¬ 
viting skeletons to your feasts. We mustn’t be sad to- 
night, Pam, just as you’re on the threshold of a new 
life. Do you know I’m downright glad you’re getting 
married, child?” the old lady said with sudden anima¬ 
tion. “Better any husband than none in these days of 
emancipated spinsters and sexless women! Woman 
was created for one job and one only. Built for it, 
fitted for it, made for it. Let her stick to it. She has 
no right to be grabbing men’s work from them.” 

“But if there aren’t enough men to go round?” put in 
Pamela with a twinkle. 

“Pish! How is it that some women get two?” re¬ 
torted Mrs. Carey, with the air of one who delivers an 
unanswerable argument. “However, you’ve got one all 
right, so I needn’t waste my time over that. What ad¬ 
vice did your mother give you before you left home?” 


FAREWELL TO ENGLAND 


63 


“She said that I was always to remember that Darner 
was my husband, and not to set myself up against him 
in any way. ,, 

“Anything else?” 

“That if our opinions should clash I was to remember 
that he was so much older than I that he was bound to be 
right.” 

“H’m! What did you say to that?” 

“I said that as I was so much younger than he, I was 
sure to be right! Mother laughed, but begged me not to 
be queer. She said that men liked girls to be as ordi¬ 
nary as possible.” 

“Be yourself, Pam. That’s all that matters. He’ll 
like you well enough. But tell me, is your mother her¬ 
self the doormat she counsels you to be?” 

Pamela smiled. In her soft, apparently yielding way, 
her mother usually overbore all her father’s decisions. 

“I thought so!” commented Mrs. Carey. “Lucius is 
just the sort of man to inspire a woman with the con- 
sels which Janet gave you! Let’s go back to the draw¬ 
ing-room. Give me your arm, and when I’m comfort¬ 
ably settled I’ll talk sense with you, not the old-fashioned 
sentimental twaddle you’ve evidently been stuffed with.” 

But when the old lady was once more enthroned on 
her high-backed chair she did not seem inclined for 
speech, but leaned back with closed eyes. 

Pamela sat beside her, and took one hot, dry, old hand 
in hers, drawing an odd comfort and reassurance from 
the contact, that to any outside observer, would have 
seemed to mean so little. 

Once or twice the old lady murmured, “Lucy!” while 
Pamela stroked the hand she held. Silence lapped her 
round, gradually soothing her fretted nerves. 

Suddenly Mrs. Carey sat upright. 


64 


STOLEN HONEY 


‘‘Men like women to be truthful. They expect them 
to be religious," she announced. “They hate them to be 
slovenly or cattish. They can't abide a sharp-tongued 
woman. Never lie to Darner if you can help it, Pamela, 
and once you're married to him remember that he’s your 
man, and stick to him through thick and thin." Her 
voice failed suddenly; her eyes veiled themselves again. 
“I’m a little tired, Lucy. I think I’ll go to bed. Ring 
for Harriet, my dear." She opened her eyes and looked 
vaguely at the tall young figure bending over her; then, 
remembering, put up a finger and patted the soft cheek 
nearest to her. “You must have a good night’s rest, too, 
child. Remember that you’re setting out on your voyage 
of discovery to-morrow." 

Pamela’s heart leaped. 

“Sometimes I wish I could forget it, Aunt Lucilla,” 
she answered slowly. 

Yet, deep in some inner core of her, she knew that 
what she said was only half true. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A BROWN MAN AND A FAIR WOMAN 

A hurried good-bye to Great Aunt Lucilla; a mumbled 
“Heaven bless you, child, and never forget that you’re a 
Carey!” from the old lady; a cross “I’m sure I wish 
you happiness, miss, but I hope that all this excitement 
won’t upset the mistress!” from the ancient Harriet, out 
of the depths of her cranky affection for the employer in 
whose service she had grown old; a warm, “Heaven 
bless you, miss, and give you great joy of your handsome 
husband!” from Mrs. Bent. 

These varied valedictions followed Pamela to the wait¬ 
ing taxi which was to speed ..ier to the docks in Janet’s 
company. 

She cast a hasty glance towards the window where 
she had seen that disturbing silhouette last night, as she 
stepped into the cab. It was closed to-day, a thin barrier 
of gleaming glass between the world and its secrets. 
She hurriedly took the seat beside her sister and slipped 
her hand into Janet’s in a wordless appeal for sym¬ 
pathy. Janet responded with a squeeze, opened her 
lips as if to speak, then closed them again. 

They were oddly silent during the long drive to the 
docks, looking with unheeding eyes at the crowds, the 
throng of traffic, the gradual changes from West End to 
City, from City to the teeming, sordid streets of the East 
End. 

There was at once so much and so little to say; so 
65 


66 


STOLEN HONEY 


short a time for speech; so many months in which 
to regret silence, that they had scarcely spoken at 
all. 

At last Janet jerked a remark into the void; a piece 
of news suddenly remembered. 

“I heard last night from Patty Doran, who has just 
come to Bart’s as a probationer, that her brother Tim is 
going to join your steamer at Marseilles,” she announced. 

“What luck!” cried Pamela, rousing herself with an 
effort from the strange sense of unreality which merci¬ 
fully muffled feeling. “Is he going to India?” 

“No. He’s only going as far as Egypt, Patty says. 
He’s got a job in the P. W. D. there, in the Irrigation 
Department, I believe. Still, it will be better than noth¬ 
ing, having someone you’ve known all your life as far 
as that with you.” 

“Indeed it will,” said Pamela, with a little lift of re¬ 
lief. “Good old Turkey-egg Tim!” 

Tim Doran, whose real name was Stuart (but who 
answered more readily to anything else) with whom they 
had played as children, whom they had teased, and 
chaffed, and nick-named “Turkey-egg” on account of his 
freckles, and for whose departure they had wept salt 
tears when his parents had decided to go and live in 
England! Why, to have his company for even part of 
the way, would be like taking a breath of home with one 
on the great adventure! 

The pleasure of the thought remained with Pamela 
throughout the subsequent hours; the arrival at the docks, 
the novelty of the scene, the vast intricacies of the un¬ 
known riverside world, the ships, the people, the porters, 
the luggage, the swinging cranes, the ordered confusion, 
the seeming chaos that imperceptibly melted into method. 

An uninterested steward piloted them along corridors, 
through saloons, down a staircase—which he oddly called 


A BROWN MAN AND A FAIR WOMAN 67 


a companion—and along another passage, stopping be¬ 
fore an alcove in which a large porthole showed two 
doors facing each other. He indicated the right-hand 
one. 

‘That's your cabin, miss," he said, and vanished. 

Pamela turned the handle and went in, to start back 
with a murmured apology. 

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t know anyone was here," 
she said, as a well-dressed, middle-aged woman, dark, 
commanding, hawk-like, raised her head from an open 
cabin trunk on the floor. 

Both berths were piled with garments; the cramped 
quarters seemed already full to overflowing. 

A pair of hard enquiring eyes scanned Pamela’s con¬ 
fusion, then lit to a pleased sparkle. 

“You must be Miss Carey, I think. I am Mrs. 
Forrester, responsible for bringing you safely across the 
world to Mr. Langrishe." She rose and held out a large, 
capable-looking hand: “I am an old traveller, Miss Carey, 
and like to get settled before the ship starts." 

“That seems a good idea," said Pamela, in the soft 
voice that was such a contrast to her chaperon’s crisp, de¬ 
cisive tones. 

She was too unsophisticated to notice that Mrs. Forres¬ 
ter was such an old traveller that she had already appro¬ 
priated two-thirds of the hooks and most of the available 
space in the cabin. She had an anxious qualm as to how 
she would get on with her travelling companion, thrown 
as they would be for the ensuing weeks into such very 
close quarters, such an enforced intimacy. 

“This is my sister, who has come to see me off," Pamela 
continued, turning to include Janet in the conversation. 

“Ah! How do you do?" said Mrs. Forrester per¬ 
functorily, with a glance at the uniform which stamped 


68 


STOLEN HONEY 


Janet Carey as being entirely negligible as a social entity. 
“Now if I were you, Miss Carey, I should go up on deck 
again. It’s rather amusing to wlatch the people coming on 
and all that, for the first time. I shall have finished here 
by the time the steamer starts, and then you can come 
down and get your things out.” 

There was a dismissal in her tone which Pamela could 
not combat. 

“Perhaps that will be best,” she answered, shepherding 
Janet into the passage again. 

Once safely out of earshot Janet turned an indignant 
face to her sister. 

“Cat!’ she cried with unusual vehemence. “Did you 
notice that she’d* bagged nearly all the hooks?” 

“I* didn’t.” 

“I did then. You’ll want to be very careful to hold 
your own with her, Pam. Don’t let her overflow.” 

“What does it matter ?” said Pamela, in a rather choky 
voice. 

Once again she wanted to cry, “Pm lonely, Jan!” but 
once again she refrained. She had burned her boats. If 
the smoke of the sacrifice made her eyes water no one 
must see it or imagine that it meant tears. 

Yet, at the last, when the unbelievable moment of part¬ 
ing really came, a flood of irresistible emotion blinded the 
eyes of both sisters; and Janet’s rapidly dwindling figure 
on the quay became an indistinguishable blur long before 
distance made it so. 

Feeling very small and insignificant in this strange new 
world, Pamela made her way to her cabin as soon as she 
thought that her eyes would bear inspection, to find, with 
a sense of relief, that it was empty, as Mrs. Forrester had 
promised. 

As she unpacked she had a little inconsequent thrill of 


A BROWN MAN AND A FAIR WOMAN 69 

pleasure in the knowledge that her accessories were just 
as good as those of her travelling companion, and much 
fresher. Her grateful heart wafted new thanksgivings 
toward the thoughtful family, for having had their striped 
silver brushes and toilet-boxes engraved only with “P,” 
thus enabling her to use them without incurring the ill 
luck consequent on those who assume their matrimonial 
initials before they are legally entitled to do so. 

With a little flutter of trepidation she removed some of 
Mrs. Forrester’s garments from the pegs on which they 
had encroached and placed her own thereon; earning 
thereby, if she had but known it, an unwilling share of 
that lady’s respect. She made a careful division of the 
available space, allotting a little more than her rightful 
share to Mrs. Forrester, as became her superior status as 
chaperon; feeling, as she did so, that all this could not be 
really happening; that it must be a dream from which 
she would presently awaken to find herself in her old 
surroundings at Carrigrennan again. 

=*= =*=■ 5k 

For the next few days the known receded to an even 
greater distance, for Pamela lay in that daze of semi¬ 
consciousness which is the sea’s one boon to her temporary 
victims. 

Then one morning the ship’s motion seemed to have 
abated; through the open porthole she could see a glitter 
of dancing sunlight. A stir of life quickened within her, 
but not so far as to induce instant action. She was still 
content to lie in her berth, conscious of that curious sense 
of detachment from the familiar, the stable, which most 
people experience on their first sea voyage. 

A brisk stewardess bustled in with a tray. She re¬ 
minded the girl a little of Janet. 

‘Tm sure you could eat something this morning,” she 


70 


STOLEN HONEY 


said. “The sea is like a mill-pond. Even my worst 
patient is sitting up and taking notice.” 

Pamela smiled. 

“Aren’t I the worst, then?” 

“Not by long odds.” She shook up Pamela’s pillow, 
and slipped a pale blue quilted silk jacket round her 
shoulders. “Eat up every morsel of this, and get up 
when you’ve finished. You’ll be much better on deck.” 

Her words were tonic as well as prophetic. An hour 
later, a pale and shaky Pamela crawled on deck to the 
blue freshness of day, looking for her chaperon, of whom 
she had seen but little during her days of incarceration. 

Her head still swam and her gait was rather uncertain. 
It was a relief to see Mrs. Forrester’s hard, handsome 
profile, and to hear her perfunctory: 

“Ah, Miss Carey, feeling better at last? I’m glad to 
see you about again.” 

“I’m quite all right now, thanks,” said Pamela weakly, 
lurching into an empty deck-chair. 

“Good. I rescued these chairs for us both. Have 
you brought up any work or anything to read?” 

“No, I haven’t. I just want to rest and look at the 
sea.” 

“Ah, you’ll feel more lively presently,” returned Mrs. 
Forrester, glancing at the girl with a touch of that con¬ 
temptuous superiority which all good sailors feel for 
bad ones, and wondering what Darner Langrishe had 
seen in this pale wisp of a creature without a decent 
feature but her eyes. “Of course, seasickness is very 
devastating,” she reminded herself. “And it’s always 
difficult to see another woman from a man’s point of view. 
She doesn’t look as if she had money, somehow. Has 
she birth?” 

She questioned the innocent Pamela until she discovered 


A BROWN MAN AND A FAIR WOMAN 71 

that as far as family went, Darner Langrishe’s fiancee 
was “all right,” as she phrased it. Then, having satis¬ 
fied her curiosity, she relapsed into silence, working 
furiously at the lemon-silk jumper which she was knit¬ 
ting for herself. 

****** 

Pamela was content to lie there, watching the coast 
line of Portugal which peaked jaggedly against a clear 
sky; noting the clustered brown villages here and there, 
the white tilt of an occasional sail against a silver-blue 
sea. She felt as one sometimes feels after a fever, as 
if she had completely shed her old self with her old life, 
and she awaited with the resignation of fatality whatever 
the future had in store. 

“If only Darner could have come home!” she thought 
half-wistfully, half bitterly. “If only one hadn’t to 
jump into it all at once like this! To have no prelimi¬ 
naries !” 

What she secretly resented was the fact that she had 
been cheated of the spring-time of her wooing, that time 
when every woman is for once a queen, even if she has 
to abdicate immediately afterwards. 

If only she could have had the kindly counsel, the 
tender wisdom of some older and more experienced 
woman at this period, it would have been both help and 
solace to Pamela Carey, but she had to keep her vague 
resentments, her formless apprehensions to herself. 
Between her and Mrs. Forrester was a great gulf fixed, 
of temperament, outlook and character. 

They had no mutual meeting ground. Mrs. Forrester 
was of the world, worldly: Pamela, warm of impulse, 
unsuspicious and curiously unsophisticated for her 
twenty-eight years. Their companionship, forced as it 
was by circumstance, was purely superficial, and the girl 


72 


STOLEN HONEY 


had the uneasy feeling that her chaperon would be as 
glad as she was when the voyage’s end brought a parting 
of their ways. 

Still, Pamela enjoyed her journey, and the days slipped 
quickly by, each fraught with interest or incident which 
had all the charm of novelty. Gibraltar, with its tiers 
of brightly-tinted houses, reminded her a little of Queens¬ 
town; but there was nothing Irish about the voluble, 
dark-eyed vendors of fruit in green rush baskets or sprays 
of scarlet-tongued poinsettias. She seemed to have a 
foretaste of the East as she watched the swarthy lascars 
bargaining for oranges with the fruitsellers, whose gaily 
coloured boats clustered round the ship’s side like wasps 
round a pear. 

But it was not until they steamed into port at Mar¬ 
seilles that Pamela quickened to anything like her former 
vivacity. 

It was a blue day, on which the sun struck sparkles 
from every little wave, and smote the golden cross on the 
dome of the cathedral to a glittering prominence; a day 
which touched clustered roofs and spires to beauty and 
made a glamorous vista of the semi-circle of the bay, 
curving to a sweep of red-tiled villas and a welcome blur 
of green. 

It was not alone the thrill of her first glimpse of France 
that excited Pamela; she felt stirred at the thought of 
seing so soon someone as firmly entwined into the very 
fabric of her youth as was Tim Doran. 

Having told Mrs. Forrester she was expecting an 
old friend to join the Syria at Marseilles, she and her 
chaperon leaned over the ship’s side, watching the people 
from the boat-train running the gauntlet of the shrill- 
tongued sellers of lace, toy-balloons, deck-chairs, and fruit 
before they embarked. 


A BROWN MAN AND A FAIR WOMAN 73 

Suddenly out of the stream of the unknown two figures 
emerged; a large, fair woman, wrapped in a dark blue 
cape, who walked with curious floating gait, and a tall, 
thin, brown young man, whose nondescript, freckled face 
was redeemed from ugliness by a pair of very eloquent 
grey eyes. He carried a dark-blue leather dressing-bag 
which obviously belonged to the floating lady. 

Mrs. Forrester gave an amused laugh. 

“Why, there's Heloise Waring!” she exclaimed*. “And 
she’s annexed a young man as usual!” 

“It’s Tim Doran,” cried Pamela, a thrill in her voice 
at sight of her old playmate. 

Mrs. Forrester cast a quick sidelong glance at her 
charge. The girl was transformed. Her eyes had the 
sea-sparkles in their blue depths; her face was vivid with 
a sudden radiance. 

“Poor Langrishe!” she thought, a cynical smile twist¬ 
ing her thin lips. “I hope devoutly that I shan’t have 
one of these transplanted romances on my hands! I 
wonder if I can trust Heloise to keep him out of mis¬ 
chief? She’s not one to relinquish a man if once she’s 
got her claw on him!” she mused, as she went forward 
to the gangway, hands outstretched, to greet her friend. 
“My dear Heloise, what a delightful surprise. I had 
no idea you were coming out to India this winter.” 

“I’m afraid I’m not going as far as India this winter, 
Maud,” answered a caressing voice, so deliberately 
soothing in inflection that it, paradoxically, rasped Pamela 
when she heard it. “My foolish old Julius cannot bear 
the thought of my being so far from him as India, so 1 
am only going to Egypt this time. I must follow the 
sun, you see.” 

“Couldn’t you persuade the professor to come with 
you?” 


74 


STOLEN HONEY 


"Dearest Maud! His research work! How could you 
imagine that a mere woman’s need could rival that?” 
Mrs. Waring shook a blue-veiled head. "But where is 
Mr. Doran? He very kindly carried my bag for me.” 

She looked round vaguely, fair, large and helpless, with 
that appeal which wins instant response from the opposite 
sex. 

"He is greeting his friend—my charge, Miss Carey,” 
answered Mrs. Forrester, glancing to where Pamela stood, 
her hands clasped in Doran’s, her face alight with eager 
interest. 

Mrs. Waring followed her gaze. 

"Your charge?” she echoed with raised eyebrows. 

"Yes. Pamela Carey. One of the Careys of Carri- 
grennan in Ireland. I’m taking her out to be married to 
Darner Langrishe. You remember him, don’t you?” 

For an instant, a queer change passed over the calm 
fairness of Heloise Waring’s face. It was as if some 
giant hand had suddenly wiped out its softness, its sweet¬ 
ness, leaving only a pale, hard mask. The impression 
was fleeting, no sooner registered than gone. Mrs. For¬ 
rester thought that she must have imagined it, as she 
heard 'the honey-sweet tones murmur: "Dear Darner 
Langrishe! Of course, I remember him. Why, his wife, 
Helena Beaton, and I were at school together. I was 
one of her little bridesmaids. Dear, faithful man, I 
never thought he would marry again. You must intro¬ 
duce the girl who has persuaded him to change his mind.” 

"There wasn’t much persuasion about it as far as I 
can gather,” whispered Mrs. Forrester. "There’s some 
mystery about the affair. She admits that she hasn’t 
seen him for ten years. But I’ll tell you more later on.” 

"Do, my dear. But we mustn’t be uncharitable, must 


A BROWN MAN AND A FAIR WOMAN 


75 

we? Introduce the girl to me before I go below. Fve 
rather a-” 

“I only hope I’ll be able to hand her over safely to the 
right man at Bombay,” sighed Mrs. Forrester, with a 
dark glance at the two unconscious figures who had drawn 
apart from the other groups. 

Mrs. Waring tucked away a straying golden tendril 
before she answered with a rather self-conscious smile: 

“I don’t think you need be afraid, Maud. Mr. Doran 
—you see, I happen to know of a rather naughty little 
episode. Well, Boys will be boys, but still—he’s only 
going as far as Port Said, as it happens. He will scarcely 
have time to fall in love with—no, I really don’t think 
you need be uneasy.” 

“She’ll have plenty of time to fall in love with him, if 
she hasn’t done so already.” 

“Oh, that! She must take care of herself,” answered 
Mrs. Waring with a tinkling laugh, which sounded incon¬ 
gruous with her rather generous proportions. “Darner 
Langrishe can’t expect you to-” 

Heloise Waring’s ellipses always made Mrs. Forrester 
want to shake her, but she was too much interested now 
in her implications to resent them unduly. 

She piloted her up the deck. 

“Miss Carey, Mrs. Waring wants to know you. She 
is an old friend of your future, husband’s.” 

Pamela turned, her face still aglow. The radiance 
faded a little as Mrs. Waring pressed her warm brown 
hand in her two cool, large, white ones, and murmured 
words of congratulation, which did not ring quite true to 
the girl’s excited fancy. 

“You have drawn a prize in the matrimonial lottery, 
dear Miss Carey,” she cooed. “Darner Langrishe is one in 



76 


STOLEN HONEY 


a thousand, but I needn’t tell you that, surely, you 
who-” she paused, smiling suggestively. 

“No,” answered Pamela, with a proud little lift of her 
head. “I know what Darner is, thank you.” 

This woman’s unnecessary championship of her future 
husband was like a nettle-sting. Yet oddly enough it 
seemed to forge another link between her and Darner, 
drawing them closer together. Her misgivings were for 
herself alone. No one else should know that she had any. 

“You’ve known him for a long time, then?” 

“Yes. We’ve known him always. He is a—a distant 
cousin of my father.” Her lips twitched, the relationship 
again. “He—they used to stay with us in Ireland.” 

“Ah, then you know my poor Helena, too?” 

“Your poor Helena?” queried Pamela, stung to echoing 
Mrs. Waring’s delicate impertinences. “Was Cousin 
Helena a relation of yours then?” 

“Not a relation, but a dear friend. We were at the 
same school, though, of course, she was a good deal 
older than I. I was one of her little bridesmaids.” 

“How interesting!” said Pamela politely. 

“Don’t you think that this—this epithalamium is a 
little one-sided?” thrust in Tim Doran, with his pleasant 
drawl. “I’m sure Langrishe is all that you say, but I 
think he’s the one to be most congratulated. You see, I’ve 
known Pamela since she was in her cradle-” 

“Ah, nonsense, Timsy! Sure you know that I’m three 
years older than you are!” laughed Pamela. 

“You don’t look it, my dear child,” said Doran firmly. 
It was quite true. The fires of youth had been newly lit 
within Pamela. Life and Time had changed Tim Doran 
from the boy she had last seen into the man who now 
stood before her, thinning a contour here and there, 



A BROWN MAN AND A FAIR WOMAN 77 

hardening the line of cheek and chin, putting an incon¬ 
gruous sadness behind the merry twinkle of the grey 
eyes. 

“What have you done with my bag, Mr. Doran ?” 
asked Heloise Waring plaintively. 

“Here it is safe and sound,” answered Doran, stepping 
towards her with it. 

In the instant during which they stood side by side 
confronting Pamela, the girl had a queer little flash of 
memory. 

The big, old kitchen at Carrigrennan, with its huge 
corn-bins near the door, and its half-cured hams hanging 
from the rafters. The long wooden table, littered with 
the servants' tea. Pamela herself coming in from the 
yard to find old Mary Clancy telling fortunes by tea- 
leaves—“Shake a cup, Miss Pam, and I’ll tell yours!” 
It had all the reality of a kinema picture. What was it 
that old Mary had said? “There’s a brown man and a 
fair zooman cornin’ into yer life, Miss Pam—and not all 
for good, nayther . You’ll want to be mindin’ yer self 
zvid them asthore!” 

Pamela had laughed. The brown man would be Da¬ 
rner, of course, tanned by Indian suns, the fair woman, 
Dido. She could not possibly expect everything in her 
new life to go smoothly, where two such unknown ele¬ 
ments were concerned. She would have to walk warily 
at first, naturally, have “to be mindin’,” herself, as old 
Mary said. Then new interests sponged the old woman’s 
prophecy from her mind. 

It came back to her now with a swift sense of warning 
as before her stood a brown man and a fair woman in 
curious juxtaposition. 

These two had come into her life truly, but only for a 


78 


STOLEN HONEY 


very brief interlude. They would go out of it again a 
week later at Port Said. 

It was absurd that she should feel even this momentary 
twinge of uneasiness. 


CHAPTER IX 


ANOTHER SILHOUETTE 

On the night before the Syria was due to reach Egypt 
there was a dance in the first saloon. 

Pamela threw herself into it with all the zest of one who 
loves dancing, and who has never had enough of it. 

Tim Doran was her principal partner. As he had 
taught her what she knew of the latest dances, she essayed 
them only with him, smilingly refusing the other men 
who wanted to dance with her, on the score of possible 
clumsiness. 

But there was no clumsiness about the light figure in 
Doran’s arms, as Pamela danced on, unconscious of the 
fact that her behaviour was causing tongues to wag. 
She clung to Tim’s companionship as the last link in her 
old life so soon to be irrevocably severed. She had no 
idea of the tittering hail of comment to which her frank 
annexation of him had given rise. 

She only knew that she felt a lump in her throat at the 
thought of their parting, as they paced the moonlit deck 
after a long, intricate two-step. 

The place seemed deserted. As they moved towards 
the ship’s side neither noticed that two deck chairs in the 
shadow of the awning were occupied, nor did they hear 
the whispered criticism as they passed. 

“Look! Again, dear! It’s the talk of the ship,” 
murmured Mrs. Waring. “Oh, these quiet girls-” 

“Quiet ? She was quiet only till young Doran appeared 
79 



8o 


STOLEN HONEY 


on the scene,” answered Mrs. Forrester. “Thank 
Heaven, he gets off at Port Said to-morrow. The other 
men won’t be bothered with her then, and I shall have 
a chance of getting her safely to Bombay. What they 
see in her I don’t know. Why she hasn’t even a feature!” 
Her hand went up instinctively to her own well-cut, aqui¬ 
line nose. 

“There is a something,” admitted Mrs. Waring gener¬ 
ously. “A shade, a nuance, a little difference! I think 
she has a slight cast in one eye. That always attracts 
men, you know. I tried to save that poor young Doran, 
but he seems positively infatuated—for the moment, at 
least. That’s his type. He’s just over one little episode, 
and is ripe for another. He’ll be after someone else the 
instant he lands in Egypt. Young men, you know,” she 
sighed tolerantly. 

“You promised to tell me something about him,” Mrs. 
Forrester reminded her. 

“Did I ? Ah, yes, dear, I remember. But you mustn’t 
repeat it. It’s all rather vague, and I am the last woman 
in the world to wish to make mischief, you know.” 

“Yes, yes! But what was it? Tell me. I am quite 
safe!” 

“It’s only that when a friend who was seeing me off 
at Victoria caught sight of young Doran on the platform, 
she seemed very interested, and said that she had seen 
him in Cornwall in the summer, staying at an inn in a 
little fishing village, with a very attractive girl !’* 

“His sister, probably.” 

“No, the landlady said not. They weren’t married 
either. They were the only people in the inn and had 
been there a week, she said.” 

“Alone together?” 

“Alone together. A clandestine affair. Cecily gathered 


ANOTHER SILHOUETTE 


81 


that.” Mrs. Waring lowered her voice further, hesi¬ 
tated, then spoke as if reluctantly. “This morning I 
questioned the Carey girl, and she admitted that she had 
been to Cornwall last summer!” 

“Heloise! You don’t mean to insinuate-” 

For once Mrs. Forrester permitted herself a pregnant 
ellipsis. 

Mrs. Waring laid a white hand on her arm. 

“Dearest Maud, I insinuate nothing. I merely asked 
a question for the gratification of my own idle curiosity. 
It is an odd coincidence, you must admit.” 

“I don’t believe that Pamela Carey was ever the heroine 
of such an episode,” said Mrs. Forrester bluntly. 

Mrs. Waring shrugged shoulders w‘hich gleamed marble- 
white in the moonlight. 

“I don’t mean to hint for an instant that she was—she 
grew rather red and confused over the Cornwall question, 
though, and changed the subject as quickly as possible.” 

“Why didn’t they marry each other if that was the 
case?” 

“No money, probably. Besides, you know what girls 
are nowadays. Lax to the last degree.” 

“Nothing is proved, Heloise,” said Mrs. Forrester 
quickly. “I shouldn’t mention it to anyone else if I were 
you. I can’t imagine the girl doing a thing like that. 
Her affair with young Doran is so very open now.” 

“I’m afraid that’s the worst feature,” sighed Mrs. 
Waring. “I pity poor Darner Langrishe.” 

“Darner Langrishe is quite well able to take care of 
himself,” returned Mrs. Forrester shortly, feeling thor¬ 
oughly disturbed by Mrs. Waring’s insinuations. 

“You are always so charitable, dear Maud. I try to 
be, too, but the evidence of one’s own senses—just look 
over there!” 



82 


STOLEN HONEY 


Mrs. Forrester looked, and saw a most compromising 
silhouette. Against the pale, moonlit background of sky 
and sea two faces met and kissed. 

Smitten with a sense of vicarious responsibility, she 
rose from her chair and crossed the intervening strip of 
deck. 

“Miss Carey, I think it is time you went below,” she 
said hardly. “You have been up here just a little too 
long.” 

Pamela looked at her, startled, but not altogether 
guiltily, she was forced to admit. 

“Very well, Mrs. Forrester,” the girl answered quietly. 
“I was just saying good-bye to Tim here. There will be 
such a crowd to-morrow.” 

“That's all very well as long as it is good-bye!” Mrs. 
Forrester said significantly. “As for you, Mr. Doran 
all I can say is that you seem to forget that Miss Carey 
is the promised wife of another man.” 

Tim Doran made a step forward, holding himself in 
with obvious difficulty. “I do not, Mrs. Forrester,” he 
replied huskily. “If Langrishe himself were here I believe 
Pam would have kissed me good-bye just the same.” 

“Indeed I would. Thank you, Timsy,” Pamela cried 
gratefully. 

She turned away and went down to her cabin with 
burning cheeks and wrathful eyes. She was not going 
to justify herself to Mrs. Forrester if she dared to think 
ill of her. She had kissed Tim Doran as she might have 
kissed Randall. In the long-ago days he and her brother 
had been inseparable. He was like one of themselves. 
No one but this hard, unsympathetic woman would have 
thought anything of their innocent farewell. 

“Evil minds, that’s what they have!” she told herself 
hotly, as she lay in the darkness reconstructing the 


ANOTHER SILHOUETTE 


83 


conversation which had led up to the incriminating episode. 

The shadow of parting had lain upon both, softening 
each to the brink of confidence. 

Tim Doran’s young heart was sore. He was smarting 
with a sense of lo^s, and wrong, and wounded pride. The 
latter fought against revealing his hurt in spite of the balm 
which he knew that Pamela’s solace would bring. 

Her eyes had been quick to note the change in him, 
but what he withheld, her own reticence forbade her to 
seek. Pamela’s delicate reserve, carefully hidden beneath 
her outer frankness, prevented her from trespassing on 
the secret place of others. But to-night, the moonlight, 
the mystery of their illusive isolation in a world of silver- 
spun sea and sky, the shadow of their approaching parting 
opened the portals of Pamela’s speech. 

“What’s worrying you, Timsy?” she asked softly. 

“How did you know?” he said with relieved surprise. 

“I knew from the first moment I saw you at Marseilles. 
’Tisn’t a girl is it?” 

“It is,” he confessed. 

Quick fear seized Pamela. 

“Oh, Tim dear, it isn’t Mrs. Waring?” 

He gave a queer, excited laugh. 

“You wouldn’t call her a girl, would you?” 

It would have added another mark to the score already 
mounting against her if Heloise Waring could have heard 
Pamela’s heartfelt: “I’m glad.” 

For a moment silence held. Then Pamela said ten¬ 
tatively : 

“Tell me, Timsy.” 

“There’s nothing to tell,” he answered slowly. “I 
made a fool of myself for the umpteenth time in my life. 
That’s all.” 

“She treated you badly then, my poor boy?” 


8 4 


STOLEN HONEY 


Pamela’s warm indignation distilled quick sympathy. 

“It was my own fault. I thought she cared as I did, 
but she didn’t. The mischief of it was that she—was only 
playing. I wasn’t. And that’s that!” The boy put out 
an impulsive hand, and took Pamela’s in his. “You’re 
a brick, Pam. I’m an ass at saying things, but you’ve 
been simply topping. It’s bucked -me up no end having 
you on board. Langrishe is the luckiest chap in the 
world, I think. I only hope he’s half good enough for 
you.” 

“Oh, Tim,” murmured Pamela, proud, sad, glad, 
ashamed, all at once. 

“You’ll play the game with him, Pam, whatever 
happens?” the hoarse young voice went on. “It gives 
a fellow a bit of a jar, you know—” He stopped ab¬ 
ruptly, loyalty sealing his lips. 

“Oh, my poor Timsy! Dear old boy!” Pamela 
murmured, stung with anger towards this unknown girl, 
who had taken her playfellow’s heart in her careless little 
hands and tossed it aside as worthless. 

It was then that, tenderness and pity welling irresistibily 
within her, she had put up her face and kissed Tim Doran 
as a sister might. 

“God bless you, Pam!” he murmured, just as Mrs. 
Forrester made the dramatic interruption, which had 
jarred so painfully on them both, hurling them from the 
heights of innocent emotion on which they stood, to the 
hard ground of a resented misunderstanding. 

It was hours before Pamela fell asleep; hot restless 
hours in which the throbbing of the ship’s machinery 
seemed to be beating in her heart and brain. 

Her pale cheeks and heavy eyes next day were naturally 
attributed to her grief at parting from the man to whom 
she was not engaged. 


ANOTHER SILHOUETTE 85 

Pamela nerved herself to one frank talk with Mrs. 
Forrester before the Syria reached Bombay. 

On the subsidence of her first anger, she felt that some 
explanation was due to herself and Doran as well as her 
chaperon; but the difficulty was to find an opportunity. 
Mrs. Forrester kept so strictly to the levels o ( f the 
commonplace, so rigorously relegated their intercourse to 
the exchange of trivialities that Pamela was baulked of 
every opening. 

At last, one hot evening in the Red Sea, as they sat 
side by side languidly knitting, Pamela, despairing of 
better opportunity, thrust suddenly. 

‘‘Mrs. Forrester,” she said, sitting up and leaning 
forward with burning cheeks. 

“Yes?” Mrs. Forrester glanced at the girl, noting 
her obvious embarrassment. “What is it, Miss Carey?” 

In spite of what she herself knew and what Heloise 
Waring had insinuated, she could not help liking Pamela 
a little. Apart from her affair with Tim Doran, she had 
given her no trouble, and had proved herself a pleasant 
and considerate companion. As an old traveller, Mrs. 
Forrester knew how to appreciate that fact. She disposed 
herself with interest now to hear what the girl had to say. 
She looked as if she hovered on the brink of confession, 
but Mrs. Forrester had no intention of helping her out. 
She was not in the least desirous of being burdened with 
troublesome confidences. 

“I don’t want to have any misunderstanding about 
Tim Doran and me,” Pamela blurted out. 

“No ?” Brows and lips made amused' query. 

Pamela, pricked to swift wrath at her attitude, stumbled 
on, fiery-eyed. 

“I see now that—that our friendship may have been 
capable of—of misinterpretation.” Heavens! what a 


86 


STOLEN HONEY 


word! she flashed to herself. “It all seemed so natural 
to me that I never thought, never dreamed that anyone 
could think twice about it. I’ve known Tim always. 
We played together as children. He was like one of 
ourselves. I kissed him that night as if he were my 

own-” She choked over the memory of Randall, and 

fell silent until her lips had ceased to tremble. Then she 
went on in clearer tones, her head proudly lifted. “It 
never occurred to me for an instant that anyone who knew 
me, who knew Tim, could imagine that we could wrong 
Darner in any way. But, of course, that was where I made 
a mistake. I forgot that you didn’t know us, that you 
were all strangers.” 

Her tone seemed to put Mrs. Forrester at an immense 
distance, and gave her a momentary unpleasant sense of 
insignificance. 

“It was Mrs. Waring who made the most of it,” Pamela 
went on. “I have a feeling that it was she who put nasty 
ideas about us into your head. Now, wasn’t it?” 

Mrs. Forrester saw a loophole, and to her own surprise 
availed herself of it. 

“Heloise Waring rather loves mothering young men,” 
she returned evasively. “I fancy that she was a little 
disappointed that Mr. Doran evidently preferred being 
sistered to being mothered!” 

“Oh, that was it?” said Pamela, with a slight sense of 
relief. “It was jealous she was then? She ought to 
be ashamed of herself, and she with a husband of her 
own!” Her brogue deepened in indignation. 

Mrs. Forrester gave an amused smile. 

“You put things rather crudely, my dear girl,” she 
said, with a sudden desire to ask a point-blank question 
of her charge, which at the same time Pamela’s frankness 
seemed to render unworthy as well as unnecessary. ‘T 


ANOTHER SILHOUETTE 


87 


quite understand the position between you and Mr. Doran, 
but candidly I can’t help saying that you have been 
just a little indiscreet. If you had divided your attentions 
more carefully-” 

“But I really couldn’t be bothered with any of the 
other men?” exclaimed Pamela, with wide eyes. “I 
only wanted to talk to Tim!” 

“How embarrassing innocence can be!” murmured Mrs. 
Forrester to herself. “Poor Langrishe will have his hands 
full. Thank Heaven that I can almost see the blur of 
Bombay on the horizon!” Aloud she continued: “If 
I were you, Miss Carey, I shouldn’t go out of my way to 
antagonise married women. They have an immense 
amount of power in their hands, as you will find when you 
get to India.” 

Pamela looked at her, startled. 

“But I don’t want to. I didn’t mean—oh, dear, how 
different everything is. If—if you are anywhere near me 
in India, Mrs. Forrester, I shall be very grateful for your 
advice.” 

“I don’t suppose I shall be,” answered Mrs. Forrester, 
“>as my husband expects to get a hill station quite soon. 
But if you walk warily, and are not too impulsive, you 
will get on all right. Besides, your husband will be able 
to show you the ropes.” 

“Your husband!” 

The words sent a little thrill through Pamela, and sent 
her back into her chair dreaming. It was coming very 
near now. 

Already Mrs. Forrester’s attitude had subtly altered. 
She spoke almost as if Pamela were “one of them” al¬ 
ready; a member of the noble army of married women 
instead of being a mere, inconsiderable spinster. 

She would have a place of her own in the world, a 


88 


STOLEN HONEY 


definite position. The reproach of spinsterhood—still in 
Ireland an undeniable stigma—would be removed from 
her once and for all. She would never be “poor old Miss 
Carey!” 

Alternately she longed for the days to lengthen and to 
shorten; to put an end to her suspense and to prolong it; 
to reveal Darner Langrishe’s personality and to cloak it 
indefinitely. 

Most of all, she absurdly wanted to go to sleep, and 
to wake up one morning to find herself definitely married, 
with all the apprehensive preliminaries safely over. 


CHAPTER X 


journey's end 

Pamela's heart almost stopped beating as the big, white- 
clad figure in the unfamiliar topee advanced inevitably 
along the deck towards her; then it pounded so violently 
that the sound of it in her ears drowned all other noises. 

She closed her eyes in a moment of uncontrollable 
agitation, opening them instantly to find that her fate 
was upon her. 

To Darner Langrishe's questing gaze, the girl standing 
with tightly clasped hands next to Mrs. Forrester looked 
extraordinary young, shy, and frightened; still the wild 
slip of a thing of ten years ago. Great eyes opening 
suddenly in the white little face, showed him that her 
eyes were as sapphire-blue as ever. 

In that moment something tugged at Langrishe’s heart¬ 
strings. A loneliness about Pamela’s slim figure made 
instant appeal, awakening him to the swift sense of magni¬ 
tude of the demands he had made upon her in asking 
her to come all this way across the world to marry him, 
a comparative stranger. 

Even as the revelation flashed upon him, he stepped 
forward, and took her trembling hands in a warm, com¬ 
forting grip. 

“Why, Pam, you’re not frightened of me, are you?” 
he asked in a curiously reassuring tone. “My dear, 
plucky little girl, to come out to m$ like this!” 

The familiar surged back upon Pamela at the sound of 
his voice, the sight of his suddenly remembered face. She 
89 


90 


STOLEN HONEY 


looked up into the clear eyes beneath their bushy brows, 
with an almost odd sense of having come home again. 

“Why, you’ve got dad’s tangled eyebrows!” she cried 
irrelevantly. “I had forgotten.” 

Unexpected tears welled beneath her lids and trickled 
down her cheeks. Langrishe, thinking with a flicker of 
humour, that surely never before had bride greeted her 
bridegroom in quite the same words, took out a big, silk 
handkerchief, and gathering her into his arms, quietly 
wiped them away. 

Pamela leaned her head against him for a moment with 
a sense of relief and content. The despised consolation 
surged back to her mind in an instant of surprised realisa¬ 
tion. 

“It is a comfort to have him a relation, after all!” 
she thought, remembering Aunt Lucilla’s words about the 
feeling of stability with such a preliminary connection 
induced. 

“I don’t know what you must think of me, greeting 
you like this,” she ventured, shyly, looking up at him from 
under her long lashes. 

“I’ll tell you what I think of you presently,” Langrishe 
answered, still keeping one hand in his most comforting 
way. “Meanwhile I want to thank Mrs. Forrester for 
having brought you safely out to me. Where is she?” 

He turned to where Mrs. Forrester had tactfully with¬ 
drawn. 

“Here I am, Mr. Langrishe. I needn’t ask how you 
are,” she said, speaking with a cordiality quite new to 
Pamela. “You see I have successfully fulfilled my mis¬ 
sion.” 

Langrishe wrung her hand. 

“Thank you a thousand times. I’ll never forget it.” 

“You don’t ask me how she behaved on the voyage 


JOURNEY’S END 


9i 

out?” continued Mrs. Forrester, with deliberate light¬ 
ness. 

Pamela, flushing, thought: 

“She needn’t have said that!” then reflected: “Per¬ 
haps she wishes to show me that she believes what I told 
her about Timsy.” 

“You’re coming to see the last of your charge, aren’t 
you?” Langrishe said, turning to Mrs. Forrester, “we’re 
to be married in the Cathedral at half-past twelve. Den¬ 
ton, of the Woods and Forests—you know him, I think— 
is to be my best man. I thought, if it would suit you, 
that we could drive straight to my hotel where I have 
taken rooms for a few days.” 

“I shall be charmed,” answered Mrs. Forrester. “My 
train doesn’t leave till four.” 

“I’ve ordered luncheon and the special brand of pom- 
mery that you like. If you’re both ready we may as well 
go. I’ve made arrangements about your luggage, if you’ll 
just give me your keys. I told Forrester that I would 
look after you.” 

“Excellent man!” smiled Mrs. Forrester, while Pamela 
felt as if she had been taken charge of by a beneficent 
genie who did things in the proper magical manner with¬ 
out fuss or effort. 

The next two hours whirled past her excited senses 
with phantasmagoric brilliance. 

The thronged quays with their rainbow-coloured 
crowds, the dazzling sunshine, the unfamiliar palms, 
streets, houses, people, all seemed part of the magic. 

A moment of stilled realisation came to her when 
Langrishe took her to the door of the suite he had en¬ 
gaged, and left her there alone with Mrs. Forrester. 

“I must say I like going about with your man, Pamela,” 
said Mrs. Forrester, using the girl’s Christian name for the 


92 


STOLEN HONEY 


first time. “He does everything so well. One never 
even hears the chink of money. The art of paying unob¬ 
trusively is one of the tests of the right sort of man.” 

A knock at the door revealed a salaaming servant on 
the threshold, with a bouquet of flowers in either hand; 
one rose-pink and one white. 

“For the mem-sahib. For the miss-sahib. ,, 

Her wedding bouquet! 

Pamela took the stiff white duster and turned towards 
the window with misty eyes, touched at this unexpected 
evidence of Darner’s thought. Then she noticed that a 
little white-ribboned parcel was attached to the flower- 
stems. 

She opened it with trembling fingers and took out a 
small, white velvet case. A sapphire pendant set in dia¬ 
monds hung from a slender platinum chain wound round 
its satin mound. 

She held it out to Mrs. Forrester with a sudden longing 
for sympathy! 

“Look! Look what Darner has sent me!” she cried, 
with lips that quivered in spite of herself. 

Mrs. Forrester stooped to pick up a slip of paper which 
had fallen to the ground. 

Pamela took it and read ,—'With my love to my bride. 
To match her blue eyes — Damer.” 

She flushed and trembled suddenly, sinking on to the 
nearest chair, longing, with a swift intensity, for even one 
of her own people. 

Oh, if only her mother were here! If only she could 
lay her head on that comfortable shoulder for five min¬ 
utes she felt that she could get up and dress for her bridal 
with a new heart. Half her fears and tremors had left 
her at sight of Damer. She knew that she would be at 
least safe with him whatever happened. But oh, how 


JOURNEY’S END 


93 


she wanted someone from home just to put their arms 
around her, and pet her a little, and laugh at her, and 
tell her not to be so silly, and what a dear Darner was, 
and how unexpectedly nice and thoughtful—remember¬ 
ing her eyes, and the bouquet, and everything! 

Instead, she had Mrs. Forrester, cool and appraising, 
looking at her lovely pendant as if she were merely 
wondering how much it had cost. 

“This is a star sapphire,” she said, rather grudgingly. 
“Quite a good stone, too. Really, Pamela, you are very 
lucky.” 

“I am indeed,” answered Pamela, stifling a homesick 
sigh. 

But she knew she was lucky in having found someone 
as strong and as gentle as Darner to look after her, while 
Mrs. Forrester obviously weighed her good fortune by 
its monetary value. 

The Carey pride came to the girl's aide. She stood 
up, and, unfastening the frock she wore let it slip to the 
ground and stepped out of it. 

“I shall have the proper luck of the bride after all,” 
she said with an effort at gaiety. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Don’t you know that every bride should wear: 

‘Something old and something new, 

Something borrowed, and something blue?’ 

I’ll have Darner’s pendant for the blue, and mother’s 
silk stockings—which I’ve promised faithfully to send 
back again—for the something old and borrowed. She 
says you can’t buy such stockings nowadays,” said Pam¬ 
ela, putting them on as she spoke, and slipping her well¬ 
shaped foot into white suede shoes with silver buckles. 
“How do you like my wedding-dress, Mrs. Forrester?” 

“Very much,” her chaperon answered, looking at the 


94 


STOLEN HONEY 


unmistakably good cut of the simple little white silk- 
jersey frock, which suited the girl’s lines and gave 
an effect of grace and dignity to her slenderness. 

She had just pinned on her hat, with its brim of soft 
curled ostrich-feather tips, when another knock came at 
the door. 

Mrs. Forrester opened it to find Langrishe, now attired 
as the orthodox bridegroom, outside. 

“We’re just ready,” she said smiling, turning back into 
the room to call Pamela. “I’ve got a very charming 
bride for you.” 

“I know you have,” he returned gravely. “Will you 
ask Pam to come into the sitting-room next door for a 
moment before she goes downstairs? You’ll find Denton 
in the lounge. IT1 bring her along in a minute.” 

“Certainly.” Mrs. Forrester glanced at him, pricked 
by a vicarious envy of her charge. 

“I’m ready now, Darner,” said Pamela’s voice behind 
her. She was too shy to ask him how he liked her in 
her bridal-dress, though she wanted badly to know. 

Mrs. Forrester, after a cursory glance round the room 
to see that nothing was forgotten, picked up her bouquet 
and preceded them along the corridor. 

Langrishe drew Pamela through the half-open door of 
the sitting-room, and closed it behind them. 

“Pam!” he said, holding out his hands. 

She looked at him half-shyly, wholly sweet. 

“Yes, Darner?” Her heart-beats quickened. 

“I didn’t realise till I saw you all I’d asked of you,” 
he said huskily. “You trust me, don’t you?” 

“I do,” Pamela breathed. 

“Before Heaven I’ll be good to you little girl. You 
believe that, don’t you?” 


JOURNEY’S END 95 

“I do indeed. And you’ll try to—to care a little, 
won’t you Darner?” 

“It shouldn’t be hard to care for a sweet thing like you,” 
he said rather unsteadily. “Don’t you know that you’ve 
found the way to my heart already? Where am I as re¬ 
gards yours? Anywhere near it at all?” The clear 
eyes softened beneath the tangled brows. 

“Quite near. Very near,” the girl answered tremu¬ 
lously. 

“You darling! Pam, will you kiss me?” 

Cousinship receded, vanished. Here was a man seek¬ 
ing his mate. Pamela had a vision of the silhouette in the 
Kensington flat as Darner bent his head, his lips seeking 
hers. 

For a moment she had a wild desire for flight. She 
wasn’t ready. Oh, she wasn’t ready! 

Then, with a surrender to the inevitable, came her first 
thrill of passion as Darner, his lips on hers, caught and 
held her to him closely. 

A moment later, a little pale, a little breathless, she 
hurried beside him along the corridor to the waiting lift 
which delivered them, still rather silent, to the expectant 
best man and Mrs. Forrester. 

The Cathedral stretched emptily about the little party 
as they came up the aisle, unheralded by music, un¬ 
watched, unexpected, save by the cleric who performed 
the marriage ceremony with all the perfunctoriness born 
of the long habitude. 

Out of the haze which enwrapped Pamela, two things 
stood golden-clear; Darner’s handclasp when he put the 
wedding-ring on her finger, Darner’s voice as he said: 
“Till death us do part.” 

She made her own vows whole-heartedly, awed by a 


96 


STOLEN HONEY 


sense of the mystery, the immensity of the issues of that 
“honourable estate” into which they had plunged so 
unthinkingly; but for the rest she was back in her earlier 
dream again. Nothing seemed real, except the looming 
presence of Darner himself. 

The wedding luncheon, so carefully ordered by the 
bridegroom, was appreciated at its full value by only two 
of the party. Pamela felt far too excited to eat, and 
though Darner satisfied his hunger, he could not after¬ 
wards have told how. The orthodox requirements were 
fulfilled. The orthodox health drunk. 

“I am going to look after Mrs. Forrester,” announced 
Mr. Denton later. He was a lean taciturn man of whom 
Pamela felt secretly rather afraid. “We shall be travel¬ 
ling together as far as Allahabad, where Colonel Forrester 
will meet her.” 

“I think we ought to start soon,” said Mrs. Forrester. 
“No, Mr. Langrishe, you mustn’t come to see us off. 
Mr. Denton and I are quite able to look after ourselves. 
You ought to drive Pamela out to Malabar Hill. She 
would like to see some green after all our days at sea.” 

They rqse, each secretly relieved at the thought 
of a return to the normal after the tension of the last few 
hours. 

Mrs. Forrester, warmed by Langrishe’s patient grati¬ 
tude and consideration of her tastes, drew Pamela aside 
before they parted for a final word of warring. 

“You are a married woman now, my dear,” she said. 

“One of us!” Pamela murmured to herself with a 
twinkle. 

“And I beg of you to remember that where men are 
concerned aggressive innocence is often more misleading 
than actual guilt.” 

“Thanks, Mrs. Forrester, I’ll try not to forget,” 


JOURNEY’S END 


97 


Pamela answered. “Though I really don’t see—” 

“Remember the Doran episode,” warned Mrs. For¬ 
rester. “Well, the best of luck to you, dear, and a tran¬ 
quil married life.” 

“Oh, I don’t want to be too tranquil,” declared Pam¬ 
ela foolhardily. “I’d rather have a sparkling stream than 
a stagnant pool any day.” 

Mrs. Forrester smiled and shook her head in a superior 
fashion. 

“Wonderful effect the wedding-ring has on some girls,” 
she thought to herself, as she drove away, leaving the 
newly married couple together. 

When the carriage had disappeared Pamela and Lan- 
grishe turned back to the hotel, each aware of that slight 
sense of flatness which invariably follows the efferves¬ 
cence of any unusual excitement; each conscious of their 
mutual responsibilities, their mutual ignorances of each 
other. 

“What would you like to do now, Pam?” Langrishe 
asked tentatively. 

“What do you suggest?” Pamela countered his ques¬ 
tion with another, feeling that it was more his place than 
hers to devise entertainment for their wedding day. 

“I thought that perhaps we might sit on the balcony 
of our sitting-room and have tea there. Then drive out 
to Malabar Hill, as Mrs. Forrester suggested, when it 
is cooler.” 

“That sounds delightful.” 

Pamela cast a quick thought to the publicity of the 
balcony. There could not be any—any demonstration 
there. Not that Darner’s nearness jarred on her. His 
touch held no repulsion. She was glad of his presence, 
but she just wanted to—get used to him, before— 
before- 



98 


STOLEN HONEY 


It was the attitude of the nymph looking over a white 
shoulder at her pursuer, half fearing, half longing for the 
capture which her virginal instinct prompts her to evade. 

Darner slipped a protective arm about her as they 
entered their sitting-room. 

“Is there anything you want, little girl? Tell me if 
there is.” He bent to put his cheek against hers. It 
felt hard, and faintly rough; essentially masculine. 

A new sense of power stirred in Pamela. She looked 
up at him provocatively. 

“Only one thing that I can think of at the moment,” 
she said smiling. 

“What’s that?” 

“You promise to let me do it?” 

“I promise.” 

She slipped away from his hold and ran into her bed¬ 
room, coming back instantly with a little ivory comb 
in her hand. 

“What is that for, Pam?” 

“To comb your eyebrows! You said you’d let me 
do it. I’ve wanted to ever since I first saw you this 
morning!” 

Langrishe’s laughter rang through the room. 

“You funny kid!” he cried. “Here, do your worst. 
Now be serious for a moment.” 

“I thought you said that we were going out on the 
balcony.” Over her shoulder the flying nymph peeped 
at him. 

“So we are, but not until I have kissed my wife.” 

“Darner!” Her pulses fluttered. 

He held her at arm’s length, and bent a curious look 
upon her. 

“You don’t dislike it, do you?” 

“No—no, but-” 


JOURNEY’S END 99 

“I don’t want you to kiss me if you’d rather not.” 
His voice sounded hard. 

“Oh I don’t mind,” Pamela faltered. 

“I want more than that,” said Langrishe masterfully. 

“What do you want, Damar?” 

“I want my wife to kiss me.” 

For an instant the light stern eyes gazed into her dark 
blue ones as if they would perceive her very soul. Then 
they softened to tenderness as he whispered: 

“Won’t you, Pam?” 

“I will,” breathed Pam, lifting her face to his with a 
thrill of expectancy. 

Before he released her she murmured: 

“I’m not a child, really, Darner. I’m twenty-eight, 
a woman. I want to be your woman, to make a real 
home for you-” 

“Which I’ve never had,” he said quietly. “Dear little 
girl, you can’t set about making a home for me just yet.” 

“Why not?” A sudden apprehension seized her, she 
did not know why. 

“Because we’re on the wing again almost immediately.” 

“What do you mean, Darner?” 

“I mean that you’ll see more of the world than you 
imagined when you set out, Pam, for I’ve got my march¬ 
ing orders for Egypt.” For the moment the bridegroom 
was merged into the man with whom work came first. 

“Egypt?” echoed Pamela, feeling a cold touch at her 
heart. 

“Yes,” answered Langrishe exultantly. “It’s rather 
a big thing for me. I’m to be engineer in charge of the 
new Barrage at El-Armut, for which Sir John Crooke 
has got the contract. Don’t unpack anything more than 
you need, for I’ve taken our passages to Port Said in the 
next boat.” 



CHAPTER XI 


AN UNLESSON’D GIRL 

Langrishe noticed a slight dimming of Pamela’s bright¬ 
ness as they went out on to the balcony together, but he 
attributed it to fatigue after the excitements of the day 
rather than to perturbation at the news he had just 
told her. He himself felt a genuine pleasure in the idea. 
Always a rover, the East held unfailing ap'peal, and 
Egypt, that land of ancient mysteries and warring mo¬ 
dernities, drew him even now with her lure. It would 
be a big thing for him; perhaps the biggest he had yet 
tackled. 

In the zest of the thought his tentative wooing of 
his young wife was half-forgotten; yet, instinctively he 
turned to her now, avid for the sympathy which her 
broken sentences had proffered. 

In spite of her disclaimer, she still seemed a child to 
him. He still saw the eighteen-year-old Pamela in her 
straight white frock. He had not yet found the woman 
who had peeped at him for a moment out of the depth 
of her eyes; the woman who wanted to be mate, wife, com¬ 
rade, rather than plaything. 

“You’ll like going to Egypt, won’t you*, Pam?” he 
said eagerly. 

Pamela’s instinct was not to disappoint him, but in 
spite of her desire truth almost forced itself out. It 
was with great difficulty that she turned a blunt “no” 
into a tentative: 

“You like the idea yourself?” 

TOO 


AN UNLESSON’D GIRL 


IOI 


“I’m frightfully bucked about it,” he returned boy¬ 
ishly. “You see, it means quite a big thing for me— 
the biggest that has fallen to my lot so far. There’s a 
house on the river bank ready for us, and a staff of serv¬ 
ants-” 

“How is that, Darner?” 

“A turn of the wheel of life. Poor Bond, who had the 
job, died suddenly the other day, and Crook wired to 
me to know if I’d take it on.” 

Pamela paled and drew back in her long cane chair. 

“Dead men’s shoes!” she murmured. 

Langrishe looked curiously at her. 

“You’re not superstitious, surely,” he said. “Why, 
that’s the way promotion goes. I’m awfully sorry for 
poor Bond, of course, but it would do no one any good 
if I refused to step into his place just because the poor 
chap had the misfortune to die suddenly.” 

“Of course not. I don’t mean to be silly, only-” 

“Only what, you blue-eyed thing?” 

Langrishe smiled at her, then went on irrelevantly: 

“It’s like a real bite of the old country to see you sitting 
there, ashore, with the same shy little ways and soft 
brogue as you had ten years ago.” 

“I couldn’t put on an English accent if I tried,” said 
Pamela, relieved that he had not pressed the Egyptian 
question further. 

“I don’t want you to try,” Langrishe declared. “I 
like it much better as it is. Tell me, did Dido write to 
you at all?” 

Pamela answered eagerly, anxious to evade questions 
about Egypt. She did not want to confess that she was 
superstitious, that she always bowed three times to the 
new moon and to a single magpie; that nothing in the 
world would induce her to walk under a ladder, sit down 


102 


STOLEN HONEY 


thirteen at a table, pin new work with a black pin, or put 
her left arm into a sleeve before the right! 

Even as she chatted to Langrishe another portion of 
her brain seemed to be working like a kaleidoscope, flash¬ 
ing, as it turned, vivid, disconnected bits of memory. 

Her relief at Mrs. Waring’s departure at Port Said, the 
slow, unreadable smile on the fair face as it looked back 
at her from the gangway’s foot, her unreasonable joy at 
the thought that she would probably never see her again, 
a joy which took away half the pang at parting with her 
old playmate. 

“A fair woman and ”—what was it old Mary Clancy 
had said ?—“a brown man” They had come into her 
life at a critical period, not as she had fondly thought, 
to go out of it again immediately, but to remain. There 
they were in Egypt, that land of the inscrutable Sphinx, 
awaiting her coming with the calm expectance of fatality. 
Some queer foreknowledge told her that. . . . There 
was no escape for them: the fair woman and the brown 
man. . . . 

The strange conjunction spun through her thoughts, 
narrowing in circles to the point of utterance, gradually 
forcing itself towards the outlet of speech. 

Pamela fought against it no longer. Perhaps if she 
spoke of it she would free her mind of the obsession. 
She plunged. 

“I met a friend of yours on the steamer coming out, 
a Mrs. Waring, who is going to winter in Egypt.” 

Langrishe looked his pleased surprise. “Heloise War¬ 
ing! What a bit of luck!” 

“Luck!” echoed Pamela, with a curious intonation. 

“Yes. She’s a delightful woman, isn’t she?” 

“Is she?” said Pamela dubiously. “To tell you the 
truth, I don’t think she liked me, Darner. She evi- 


AN UNLESSON’D GIRL 


103 


dently didn’t consider me half good enough for you.” 

“Oh, nonsense!” returned Langrishe smiling. “You 
must have imagined that, Pam. She was one of Helena’s 
bridesmaids. She spent a couple of cold weathers with 
us after Dido was born.” 

“Did she?” 

“Yes. She really is a charming woman,” continued 
Langrishe reminiscently. “Do you mind if I smoke, 
Pam?” 

“Not a bit.” Pamela watched her husband with interest 
as he took out a cigar, prepared, and lit it. 

The scent of the tobacco thrilled her. It seemed one 
with this strange new element which had been so suddenly 
thrust into her life, the essentially masculine element, 
hitherto lacking. 

After a moment she spoke again. 

“Was she—Mrs. Waring, I mean—very young at the 
time of your—your wedding?” 

“About Helena’s age, I think. Why?” 

“Oh, no particular why,” returned Pamela airily. 

If Heloise Waring were a friend of Darner’s she could 
not very well tell him that she was a liar. For the first 
time she realized that one’s friend and the friend of one’s 
friend may belong to two very different types. It seemed 
to her as if she had already turned over a whole page in 
the Book of Life on this, her wedding day. 

“If she’s wintering in Egypt we must have her to stay 
at El-Armut,” Langrishe went on in a tone of pleased 
anticipation. 

“Must we? Not just at first, though.” A very real 
apprehension rang in Pamela’s tones, which Langrishe, 
manlike, misunderstood. 

“You want us to be by ourselves?” 

Pamela nodded. He had voiced three-fourths of the 


104 


STOLEN HONEY 


truth; the remaining fourth, to which she could not give 
utterance, being that she shrunk with her whole heart 
from the idea of having Heloise Waring as her guest. 
Having a very strong sense of hospitality herself, she felt 
instinctively that Mrs. Waring might not be true to her 
bread and salt. This, too, she could not say to Darner. 
Instinct warned her, not reason, and the same sixth 
sense told her that the human male will back reason against 
instinct any day, having a wholesome distrust of feminine 
intuitions. 

“We’ve got to learn each other before we can be at 
home to visitors? Is that the idea, Pam?” 

“Yes,” said Pamela quickly. “Do you—do you know 
much about girls, Darner?” 

“Precious little,” Langrishe confessed, taking out his 
cigar and looking at her with a disarming frankness. 
“That was why I asked you to come and teach me. I’ve 
never had much to do with women, Pam. They’re a 
sealed book to me. I want you to unseal it. Will you?” 

“I will. But you mustn’t judge all women by me, 
Darner, or by any one woman. We’re all different. I 
know I’m full of faults. Mother and the girls often tell 
me that I’m queer, so I suppose I must be.” 

“I like your kind of queerness, then.” 

“Do you?” Pam looked at him gratefully. “Ah, 
but you don’t know me yet, Darner. There’s one thing 
I want you to promise me, though, and that is, that if you 
should notice any little things about me which annoy you, 
irritate you, you’ll tell me about them yourself, instead 
of letting them go on annoying you. It won’t hurt my 
feelings in the least. I’d hate to think that you were 
suffering a silent martyrdom on account of any little 
peculiarities of mine, which I might easily conquer if I 
only knew about them.” 


AN UNLESSON’D GIRL 


105 


Langrishe laughed outright, then sobered. Here were 
truth, sincerity and the sense of duty which he had pre¬ 
visioned. More, much more than he had had any right 

to expect, and still- He was conscious of a troubling 

of his senses, a swift, compelling desire for more than the 
sweet reasonableness which Pamela seemed so eager to 
proffer. 

He unconsciously squared his shoulders. If he wanted 
more than that he must win it for himself. It was not 
for him or any other man to have all the gifts of the gods 
tossed into his lap at once. 

He held out his hand. “That’s a bargain, then; though, 
mind you, I’m much more disposed to ‘Be to her virtues 
very kind. And to her faults a little blind!’ ” 

“That’s very nice of you,” smiled Pamela, slipping her 
hand into his. 

“It must be mutual, though,” Langrishe went on, 
putting his other hand over hers in so warm a clasp that 
the girl had the odd sensation that it was her heart he 
held fluttering there. 

“I’m a clumsy chap, I know, and you’ll want to have 
great patience with me. You’ll teach me your finer 
woman’s ways, and if I’m a bit slow to learn-” 

“If we’re both slow to learn we’ll blame our teachers, 
and not our own stupidity!” cried Pamela, with sparkling 
eyes. 

“So long as there’s truth between us,” went on Lan¬ 
grishe slowly. “Truth between you and me-” 

“There will be, Darner, I promise you that.” Pamela, 
moved by a swift impulse, bent and laid the softness of 
her cheek on the big brown hands, in her first spontaneous 
caress. 

Langrishe was stirred to a tenderness that gripped him 
by the throat and made speech difficult. Already she had 



io6 


STOLEN HONEY 


shown him a goal worth striving for. Already she had 
opened the sealed book and given him his first glimpse 
of a real woman’s heart. 

* * * * * * 

During the voyage back to Egypt the mutual lessons 

continued, to the pleasure and profit of each. 

Pamela, plunged into so many strangenesses at once, 
adapted herself to her new life with a rapidity which sur¬ 
prised even herself. The conditions of the unexpected 
return voyage amused and delighted her with their contrast 
to her former one. 

Then she had been nobody in particular; just a girl 
going out to India to be married, a more or less irksome 
charge to her chaperon, a person of no real importance. 

Now she was a married woman, with a distinct 
status of her own. She had a husband whose delight 
was to make her way smooth and beset it with little 
pleasantnesses: a man of her own, whose obvious pleasure 
and pride in her made all her little tentative graces and 
whimsicalities unfold and blossom as a flower before the 
sun. 

Darner liked her queerness, which he called originality. 
He laughed often at her, even when she saw no cause for 
laughter, but his amusement held no sting. Day by day 
they grew closer together on their strange honeymoon. 
Day by day Pamela felt an increased reluctance at the 
thought of its inevitable end. This was but a breathing 
space between an epoch and an epoch. She knew that, 
and cherished it all the more dearly for its evanescence. 

At last they came to the Suez Canal, and Pamela had 
once again the odd sensation of seeing ships apparently 
steaming over vast tracts of sand. The faint, inexplicable 
premonition which her first sight of Egypt had aroused 
in her, and against which she had fought as being utterly 


AN UNLESSON’D GIRL 


107 


unreasonable, returned to her in full force, as they steamed 
past the harbour of Ismailia, fringed with its feathery 
palms, dark-plumed against a rosy sunset sky, and caught 
a vignette of shimmering waters reflecting cream, flat- 
topped houses. 

And yet, Egypt appealed to her, too. She knew, in a 
sense, what Darner felt, as he leaned beside her on the 
ship’s rail and said rather low: “I believe that the East 
will tug at my heart to my dying day.” 

“Will it, Darner?” 

“Doesn’t it call you at all, Pam?” 

“It does and it doesn’t. Don’t laugh at me, my dear, 
when I tell you that I feel just a little bit afraid of it.” 

“I shan’t laugh at you, my child, because I think I 
can imagine what you feel. Egypt is a woman, and it 
takes a woman to fear a woman. A man doesn’t fear 
her. He wants to conquer her. She’s all at once veiled 
and brazen, bold and subtle, shameless and mysterious, 
a thing of paradox.” He took off his topee and wiped 
his forehead. “Perhaps I’m talking nonsense, but that’s 
how I feel.” 

“Oh, no, you’re not. I understand.” 

Pamela shivered a little . . . “It takes a woman to 
fear a woman.” Did she fear a woman now? She 
scarcely knew. 

“You’re cold. I’ll go below for your coat. The 
temperature drops quickly when the sun goes down. 
You mustn’t get a chill.” 

He was back in a moment with a pale blue blanket 
coat, which he wrapped round her. Her eyes were misty 
as she turned to thank him. 

“Darner, you don’t know what it means to be taken 
care of like this.” 

“You don’t know what it means to Have you to take 


io8 


STOLEN HONEY 


care of,” he returned with a gruffness that only half hid 
the tenderness. 

All the fineness in the man, long hidden, was surging 
upwards to the light, bringing with it daily revelations of 
all that he had hitherto missed, all that had passed him 
unheeded. 

‘T feel as if I had suddenly been transplanted into 
another world,” the soft voice went on. “Separated 
from everything I’ve known all my life. I haven’t even 
had letters from home since we touched at Port Said 
coming out. They followed me to India. They’ll have 
to follow me back again.” Her tone was wistful. 

“What a lot I have to make up to you for! Shall I 
ever do it, I wonder ?” 

“Oh, you will. You do,” Pamela cried. “But some¬ 
times I just long to hear from home, what they’re doing 
and how everything is getting on without me.” 

“Very badly, I’m afraid.” 

“Very well, I’m sure.” Pamela ,smiled up at the 
square, sunburnt face, with its thatch of faded red hair, 
and wondered how anyone could ever have called it ugly. 
To her it had grown wonderfully dear. She loved its 
blunt outline. She wanted to put up her hand and stroke 
the back of the well-built head, whose shape she had 
always admired. 

Langrishe tucked her hand within his arm. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” he said, turning to pace the deck. 

Night swooped upon the desert with all the incredible 
swiftness of the East. Along the canal bank a camel with 
a white-cloaked rider moved with the silence of a shadow. 
Squares of orange light glowed from low houses on either 
side. Overhead the sky curved like a dome, sapphire- 
deep, set with large, trembling stars. 

As they paced the deck, arm-in-arm, Pamela suddenly 


AN UNLESSON’D GIRL 


109 


remembered that other night on which she had stood 
beneath an Eastern sky, hand-in-hand with a man. Her 
cheek burned at the recollection of Mrs. Forrester’s look, 
her stinging words. Out of the wisdom of her newly- 
found womanhood she knew how little the episode had 
meant, how innocent of all offence her action had been. 
For a moment she wondered if she ought to tell her hus¬ 
band about it. Then an inflection in his voice put all 
other thoughts to flight. 

“You’ll soon be able to make a home for me now, 
Pam,” he was saying in the tone which he kept for her 
alone. “It will be rather nice, you know, to see that 
turned-up nose of yours opposite me at the breakfast table 
every morning! I don’t think I’ll let Dido come out to 
us until after Christmas.” 

“For fear she would interrupt your view of my nose?” 
asked Pam saucily. 

“Yes,” he answered, in a tone of deep content. 

“Do you know Dido at all?” 

“ ’Pon my word, I don’t believe I do. She was a pre¬ 
cocious kid at thirteen, when I last saw her, with a funny, 
peaked little face, big dark eyes, and a mop of fair hair. 
She had apparently read all the latest novels and was 
up-to-date in her conversation. I got the impression 
that her grandparents, old General and Mrs. Beaton, spoil 
her terribly in the holidays.” 

“Why did you never send her to us, Darner? We’d 
have loved to have her.” 

“I don’t know. It never occurred to me.” 

“And yet it occurred to you to ask me to marry you! 
How was that? il’ve often wondered,” said Pamela 
curiously. 

She glanced up at the big figure looming beside her in 
the starlight, and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. 


no 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Tell me, now,” she murmured coaxingly. 

“It was an inspiration sent straight from Heaven,” 
Langrishe assured her. 

“Ah, but, really-” 

“Ah, but, really!” he echoed mockingly. “I was 
very near to not sending the letter at all, not realising its 
celestial origin. Twice I tried to tear it up—but I didn’t.” 

“Ah, you didn’t I” breathed Pamela on a sigh of relief. 

“Are you glad or sorry?” 

“Which do you think?” 

For answer he pressed the arm in his closer to his side. 
This sense of wordless understanding was growing be¬ 
tween them day by day. 

Pamela gave a happy little laugh. “I believe that 
Dido was the Dea ex Machina, all the same.” 

“I believe she was,” Langrishe admitted, with a smile. 
“Yet, I’ll bet my last penny that it’s the first time she 
has ever appeared in such heavenly guise!” His laugh 
rang out. 

“You’re not flattering to your only daughter.” 

“My only daughter!” Langrishe’s voice struck a 
note of pride. “She’s all right. A handful, if you like, 
but straight and clean and true, like all the Langrishe 
women. 'Vis virtute nascitur!’ You remember our 
motto, Pam? It’s yours now, you know.” 

“Yes, it’s mine now,” echoed Pamela dreamily. “But 
—suppose she disappoints you? Suppose you expect too 
much of her?” 

“I couldn’t expect too much of my women,” answered 
Langrishe inflexibly. “Neither my big girl nor my little 
one will ever disappoint me!” 

“Oh, don’t say that, Darner! It’s like tempting Fate!” 
cried Pamela hastily. 



AN UNLESSON’D GIRL 


in 


“You’re not going to disappoint me already by being 
superstitious, are you?” 

“I*—I’m afraid I am rather superstitious,” Pamela 
admitted. “There’s a banshee in the Carey family, you 
know!” 

“Nonsense, darling! There are no such things as 
banshees.” Langrishe stopped in the deserted corner 
of the deck and turned his wife’s fa!ce up to his. “Now, 
look me in the eyes and say: T don’t believe in banshees, 
Darner.’ ” 

Pamela looked at him obediently, a smile lurking round 
the corners of her mouth. 

“I don’t believe in banshees, Darner—but I do implicitly, 
all the same!” 

Langrishe stooped and kissed the mouth that mocked 
him. What did it matter, after all, what she believed in, 
so long as she believed in him? 

The more he thought of it the more the idea of post¬ 
poning Dido’s coming appealed to him. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE THRESHOLD OF EGYPT 

The bright huddle of houses, topped by greenish domes, 
resolved itself into Port Said. 

The steamer slowed majestically to her stopping-place 
opposite an arched and pillared building, whose three 
turquoise-tiled domes were surmounted by the sign of 
the crescent. Ashore, blue-robed Arabs, grinning negroes 
and donkey boys ran along the water front, shouting, 
calling, laughing, in a shrill babble of sound. 

The ship was boarded by a hoard of white-robed, 
gesticulating Arabs, who fought among themselves for 
the luggage of the unresisting passengers. 

As Langrishe and Pamela stood watching, a little, 
dark man in pale grey tweed and cream velours hat pierced 
the clamouring throng with an air of importance in in¬ 
verse ratio of his proportions. 

Pausing tentatively near Langrishe, he reminded Pamela 
irresistibly of a fussy little tug approaching a great 
liner. 

“You Mr. Langrishe?” he inquired. “Ah, I thought 
so. I’m Bullen, Sir John Crooke’s agent here. He asked 
me to look after you.” The velours hat came off with a 
flourish. “Drop that!” Mr. Bullen cried in Arabic to 
a one-eyed man who had just succeeded in wresting 
Pamela’s dressing-bag from her. “My own men are here. 
They’ll take your luggage to my boat. I’ll see your 
heavy baggage through the customs, if you’ll give me 
your keys. Ah, thank you. I have an arabiyeh on shore 
112 


THE THRESHOLD OF EGYPT 


113 

for you, and have reserved a first-class compartment in 
the train.” 

He hustled them to the ship’s side and down the gang' 
way into a smart little motor launch. 

“Pm not used to being shepherded like this,” Langrishe 
murmured as he handed Pamela to the stern of the launch. 

“No, it’s you who do the shepherding,” she whis¬ 
pered back. 

Mr. Bullen, whose manners did not permit of an in¬ 
stant’s silence, chattered all the way to the shore, 
principally shop to Langrishe, for which Pamela was 
thankful. She wanted to look at the varied scene before 
her, gay as the opening of a musical comedy, she 
thought. 

There was even more colour here than in Bombay. 
Men and boys in bright-hued robes—blue, yellow, dull 
pink, bearing on their heads baskets of oranges, dates, 
rings of bread, or platters of fish; black-veiled women, 
women veiled in white; little children in garb of every 
tint. Clamour, movement, the incessant jostle of East 
by West. It was all new as an unread book to Pamela, 
who had not had time to land at the port on her outward 
journey. 

The queer, booth-like shops, the donkeys a-j ingle with 
chains and gay with scarlet trappings and red-humped 
native saddles, the Arab policemen, still in their summer 
white, the noisy little trams with their human freight of 
every colour, from darkest brown to pasty white, held 
her amused interest. 

When the train steamed out of the crowded station to 
Mr. Bullen’s valedictory: 

“If you care to stay the night in Cairo IT 1 wire Marshall 
not to expect you till to-morrow,” she turned to Langrishe 
with a sigh. 


STOLEN HONEY 


114 

“Darner, it’s like being plunged straight into the Arabian 
Nights!” 

“I thought you’d like it,” he said triumphantly, think¬ 
ing what funny, fanciful creatures women were; swayed 
by every passing whimsy. 

“Oh, I always liked it, only-” Pamela felt she 

could not possibly put her paradoxical feelings into words. 
“Will we stay the night in Cairo, do you think?” 

“We shall,” he corrected. Then he looked across at 
her with a twinkle. “Now, the only flaw I have found in 
you so far, Pam, is your absolute grammatical confusion 
between ‘will* and ‘shall.’ ” 

“It’s not grammatical, it’s racial,” Pamela retorted. 
“If that’s all the fault you have to find with me, you 
can buy me an English grammar in Cairo, and I’ll spend 
my spare time in trying to master it. And now that 
we’re being candid, I’ve wanted to tell you for a long 
time that I don’t at all like the way you poke out your 
under-lip when you’re thinking. It makes you look 

like-” Pamela’s fatal facility for simile almost 

betrayed her into saying,—“like a codfish trying to be 
serious”—before she changed it into a more tactful 
“like anyone but my own nice husband.” 

Langrishe smiled. “Makes you feel as if you’d mar* 
ried a stranger, eh, Pam?” 

“Well, so I did,” said Pamela heedlessly. 

“Come now, sweetheart!” he expostulated, a trifle 
hurt. 

His marriage, had, so far, been so extraordinarily suc¬ 
cessful that Langrishe had forgotten his own earlier mis¬ 
givings. He held out his hand. 

“Not a stranger, Pam?” 

“No; only my father’s second cousin once removed!” 
she retorted, smiling. Then, noting that for once her 


THE THRESHOLD OF EGYPT 


ii5 

jesting was distasteful to him, she crossed over to his side 
of the compartment and put her cheek against his. “My 
own dear man,” she said softly. “No stranger now.” 

He drew her down into his arms and kissed her pas¬ 
sionately, holding her closer. 

“You little witch? What have you done to me?” 

“What have I done to you, Darner ?” 

“Stolen my senses, I think. Have I got all of you, 
Pam, every bit of you? Tell me.” 

His passion, his insistence shook her a little. 

“Very nearly,” she whispered tremulously. 

“But not all? I want all.” His words were hot. 
They seared some inner reserve. 

“Not all—yet,” she murmured unsteadily. 

He released her suddenly. “Of course not. How 
could I? It’s absurd. A man almost old enough to 
be your father!” he jerked out. 

Pamela managed a shy laugh. “I never heard of 
anyone being a father at fourteen.” Her voice softened 
to appeal. “Give me time, my dear one. IPs all been 
so wonderful. You shall have everything I have to give, 
only be patient with me, Darner. It’s all so new, you 
see. . . . I’m only learning. . . . Give me time.” 

“You shall have all the time there is,” answered Lan- 
grishe, half ashamed of his outburst. “Look, Pam! Did 
you expect to see water-lilies in Egypt?” 

Pamela looked from the window to where a stretch of 
water gleamed in tihe sunlight, bearing a flotilla of golden- 
hearted white blossoms on its surface, in strange contrast 
to the wastes of sand beyond. 

She felt a little flat at Darner’s sudden change to 
quietude. Men were like that, she supposed, swinging 
you up to the stars one moment and planting you stolidly 
on the ground the next. But he was a dear, all the same, 


n6 


STOLEN HONEY 


and she did love him. She did! She did! After all, 
he was all she had now in this unfamiliar new life which 
they were fating together. Forsaking all others, she 
had chosen to cleave only to him. She was quite ready 
to give him all she had if only he would have patience, 
remembering the strangeness of everything to her. But 
that was manlike, too. He didn’t, couldn’t understand 
the plunge it had been for her. What more did he want 
that she hadn»’t given him, that she wasn’t prepared to 
give him? 

Aunt Lucilla’s words flashed back: 

“A big child on a toy rein. Never let him feel it strain.” 

She smiled. After all, they had not been three weeks 
married yet. They had come wonderfully close in so 
short a time. Only a month ago! Oh! she was indeed 
blest, indeed fortunate. The door had not been closed 
on romance, after all. She had married a man who was 
in love with her now, whatever he might have been before- 
hand. A man who wanted her, all of her: body, soul 
and spirit. She thrilled at the thought, stealing a glance 
at the square-cut figure, looking so steadily at the passing 
desert, with its clusters of palm-girt, flat-topped, mud 
villages; brows drawn, lower lip pursed out in thought. 

Body and spirit she had already given him, graciously, 
generously, but her soul was her own, must be her own 
as yet. She had not reached that wonderful fusing, that 
transcendant oneness which is love’s last and greatest gift. 

Washed clean of self with tears, thrice purified as by 
fire must be those who kneel to receive love’s ultimate 
Holy Grail. 

Some dim realisation of this came to Pamela as the 
train sped through the wastes of sand stretching to a far 
horizon in faintest tones of biscuit pink and lavender, the 
desert dwarfing to insignificance this puny toy of mere 


THE THRESHOLD OF EGYPT 


ii/ 

man’s making, that puffed its fussy way across the vast¬ 
ness, spending its little waft of smoky breath in an in¬ 
stant’s defiance of its illimitable leagues of crystal air. 

They touched the commonplace again when tea in the 
restaurant car was announced by an Arab attendant, with 
a flashing smile. 

Langrishe took hold of Pamela’s elbow as he piloted 
her along the swaying train. 

“If only the girls could see us now,” she said. “Oh, 
Darner, you’d love them, especially Kitty. She’s so pretty 
and such a little darling. Why, she’s your own sister 
now. Your own little sister!” She smiled at the thought. 
She had not been able to adjust herself to altered relation¬ 
ships as yet, life whirled her on so fast. Each day brought 
a train of new impressions, crowding out the old. She 
would not have time to settle down to collect her thoughts 
until they arrived at El-Armut. 

When at last they reached Cairo and descended to the 
platform, thronged with the usual crowd of third-class 
passengers in their draperies of blue, black, and white, 
surmounted by tfye inevitable crimson fez or turbush, 
Pamela felt a new and delightful sense of security. 

At home, on her infrequent journeys, she would have 
had to see ab»ut her own luggage, her own cab, her own 
hotel, if ever she committed the extravagance of going 
to such a place. Here she had to think of nothing, bother 
about nothing. She had not even seen her ticket on 
the journey from Port Said. 

“Any man is better than no man,” Aunt Lucilla had 
declared. 

Pamela would not go so far as that, but she felt the 
swift, surging pride of the woman in her mate when she 
realised anew Darner’s quiet efficiency. 

“We’re going to Shepheard’s,” he announced. “It’s 


ii8 


STOLEN HONEY 


Cosmopolitan, and will amuse you. Our heavy things 
are going straight out to El-Armut. You've got evening 
kit in your cabin trunk, haven’t you ?” 

“I have,” Pamela answered. “Two frocks.” She 
felt thankful that she had spent Aunt Lucilla’s fifty 
pounds on a few good things, not frittered it on fripper¬ 
ies, as Kitty had suggested. 

The drive through the crowded streets passed all too 
quickly. Pamela wanted to stop half a dozen times to 
feast her unaccustomed eyes upon some strange vignette, 
a white-bearded, yellow-robed old man gravely driving 
two turkeys with a little switch, through the crowd of 
carriages, motors, camels, donkeys and pedestrians; a 
chocolate-coloured, turbanned face, suddenly peering 
through a green-shuttered window in a cream wall; a 
harem carriage rolling by, revealing a flash of dark eyes 
between two wisps of snowy veil; a blue-robed figure 
praying beneath a palm tree, oblivious of all else save 
his devotions; a lemonade seller in scarlet and white, 
chinking his brass cups together as he sauntered along 
with his .gleaming vessels; a string of camels laden with 
great bundles of vivid green clover. 

“I knew you’d like it,” said Langrishe, watching her 
changing expression. “I don’t know how I am ever to 
tear you away from the fascinations of Shepheard’s.” 

The arabiyeh, a low victoria drawn by two skinny, 
long-tailed, black horses, and driven by an Arab in frock 
coat and tarbush, drew up with a flourish before the fa¬ 
mous hostelry. The wide terrace, looking upon the bril¬ 
liant kaleidoscope of the street, was thronged with visi¬ 
tors. 

Pamela, conscious of the journey’s dishevelment, 
thought she had never seen so many idle people gathered 
together before. 


THE THRESHOLD OF EGYPT 


119 

A snake-charmer plied his trade to a knot of curious 
spectators, who looked at his wriggling reptiles with 
mingled feelings. Sellers of bead chains of various weird 
hues paraded their wares beneath the balustrade. As 
she hurried up the broad, low steps in Langrishe’s wake, 
she felt very countrified, very insignificant, an impression 
which was not modified when a tall, fair woman, beau¬ 
tifully dressed in palest grey, floated across the terrace 
towards them, and held out her hand in pleased sur¬ 
prise. 

“Darner Langrishe, of all people! How delightful to 
see you! . . . and Miss Carey!” Heloise Waring turned 
to Pamela, as an afterthought. 

“Mrs. Langrishe, please!” Darner reminded her, taking 
her hand in a warm grip. 

“Ah, forgive me! I had forgotten that all-impor¬ 
tant marriage ceremony.” Mrs. Waring smiled. “Some¬ 
times, I daresay, you forget it, too, Miss—I mean Mrs. 
Langrishe.” 

Pamela looked at her, swiftly aware that absence had 
taken no edge from the keenness of her dislike; nay, 
rather sharpened it than otherwise. 

“No, I don’t think I ever forget it,” she answered 
quietly, stung by something in the other woman’s tone. 

A prickle of malice seemed to underlie its smoothness. 
Her remark, innocent enough on the surface, seemed to 
bear some hidden meaning—an enigma to which Pamela 
had not the key. 

“How delightful to find you here!” Langrishe was 
saying. “Quite a piece of luck for us, as my wife and I 
are only staying in Cairo for the night on our way up 
to El-Armut.” 

“What are you going there for?” queried the honey- 
sweet tones. 


120 


STOLEN HONEY 


Langrishe told her, to an accompaniment of little nods 
and deep-drawn breaths of interest. 

“Then I may see you on my way to Upper Egypt. I 
am going to Luxor later on.” 

“You may take us in on your way,” said Darner hospit¬ 
ably. “Mustn’t she, Pam? We were talking of it the 
other day, weren’t we?” 

He turned to Pamela for confirmation of his invitation. 
It was the first direct appeal he had ever made to her. 
She felt, for an unreasonably chilled moment, as if he 
could not have asked anything harder of her. 

“We were,” she answered in a tone so delicately frosted 
that Langrishe looked quickly at her to see if it were 
really she who spoke. “We shall be very pleased to 
see you at El-Armut, Mrs. Waring, if you think it worth 
while to stop at what I hear is a rather dull little 
place.” 

“Anything is worth while that brings one near one’s 
friends,” smiled Heloise Waring. “Thank you a thou¬ 
sand times, dear people. I shall be delighted to pay you a 
little visit as soon as the honeymoon is over. But I must 
not keep you now. You look tired after your journey, 
Mrs. Langrishe. I’ll see you later.” 

“Which means that I’m looking old and plain,” thought 
Pamela resentfully, as she turned away with the deaden¬ 
ing conviction that for her, at least, the honeymoon was 
already over. Their happy isolation was gone. 

“Will you lie down a little before dinner, Pam?” 
asked Langrishe, when they reached their room. 

“Indeed I will not!” cried Pamela. “I want to be 
like a spider and have eyes all round my head, so that 
I’ll miss nothing.” 

“I think you’d better rest, all the same. You must be 
tired after your journey.” 


THE THRESHOLD OF EGYPT 


121 


Pamela shot a quick glance at him. “What makes 
you think so? What Mrs. Waring said?” 

“Partly that, partly my own observation. Look here, 
little girl”—he turned to her suddenly. “You weren’t 
very cordial to Mrs. Waring, you know.” 

“Wasn’t I?” 

“No, sweetheart,” he answered, so gently that her 
flicker of anger died as swiftly as it had risen. “I never 
heard a more perfunctory invitation. I can’t have that, 
you know, Pam.” 

“No?” she queried, mutinous once more. 

“No!” he answered firmly. “When I ask a friend 
to my house I expect you to back up my invitation, and 
as if you meant it, too!” 

“But I didn’t in this instance.” 

Langrishe smiled as he put his hand on her shoulders, 
and looked down at the face that still showed its feelings 
so transparently. A note of authority rang in his tone 
as he continued: “Especially in this instance, Pam.” 

“Why?” 

“Because Heloise Waring is an old friend of mine and 
was a dear friend of my wife’s.” 

“Darner!” He could not have hurt her more. 
“Aren’t I your wife?” A lump rose in Pamela’s throat, 
choking her. 

“Of course you are, you goose! But don’t you see 
that it’s as much for your own sake as for mine that I 
want you to be nice to Heloise ? I don’t wish her, or any 
old friend, to say that you have changed me toward them. 
It would reflect on your dignity and on mine to think 
that either of us could be capable of such conduct.” 

“My dignity! Oh, dear!” Pamela gulped, swallowed 
her pride, and put a hand on either side of Langrishe’s 
hard-tanned face. “I see what you mean, you serious old 


122 


STOLEN HONEY 


thing, and I’m sorry I was such a little beast. I’ll be as 
nice as I can to Mrs. Waring. I’ll tell her, if you like, 
that I really meant my invitation this afternoon.” 

“Don’t do anything of the sort,” cried Langrishe in 
mock alarm. “My good child, it would only rub in the 
fact that you didn’t.” 

“Would it?” She put her cheek against his. “Then 
what can I do to please you?” 

“Get into a dressing-gown and lie down on the couch 
for an hour. Here! Give me the key of your suit-case 
and I’ll get it out for you. Hold out your feet: I’ll take 
off your shoes. You have feet, Pam; dear little feet!” 
He caressed the arch of each silk-clad instep as he deftly 
drew off her shoes. Then he bent to kiss her. 

“Pam, you’re very young, in many ways, for your 
twenty-eight years. You don’t mind my telling you 
little things, do you?” 


CHAPTER XIII 


June and October 

Pamela flushed. “I mind your having to tell me,” 
she answered honestly. “I hope you won’t need to 
again.” 

“Dearest!” His arms were around her, his quick 
lips on hers. “Don’t you know what you are to me? 
I wouldn’t change you in the least particular. Don’t 
think I’m finding fault, my darling. It’s only-” 

“Sure, I know it’s only-” she whispered very softly. 

“Didn’t I ask you on our wedding day to tell me-” 

“Pam, dearest,” he interrupted passionately. “The 
difference between our wedding day and to-day is ‘as 
moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.’ Isn’t 
it the same with you?” 

“It is,” she murmured. “Sure, you know it is.” 

“My own girl! My sweetheart!” He kissed her 
eyes, her throat, her lips, and left her spent after a shower 
of caresses. 

As she lay there with closed eyes thinking of all the 
formless, shadowy fears which had fled before the light 
of his growing love, she realized that life, in spite of its 
moments of joy and ecstasy, was made up in the main of 
the trivial. By fitting oneself to face the little things 
undismayed one found oneself ultimately armed against 
the greater happenings. 

“Two things I must remember,” she told herself before 
sleep laid a soothing finger on her eyelids; “one is to 
make myself a mask, so that they who run—or float— 
123 


124 


STOLEN HONEY 


may not read. The other is never to forget that Cousin 
Helena’s friends are sacrosanct. I hope to goodness she 
hadn’t many! One is almost enough to exhaust my 
powers of politeness!” 

She woke an hour or so later to find Langrishe standing 
by her side, a bunch of long-stemmed pink roses in his 
hands. 

“How long have you been here?” she cried, blinking 
sleepily at him. 

“Only a minute. I though* you’d like these.” 

“They’re heavenly. Thanks, ever so much.” She laid 
her sleep-flushed cheek against them caressingly, then 
put a hand on his sleeve. “You’ve been with other men. 
There’s a nice, cigarry, manny smell about you.” 

“Is there?” Langrishe smiled. “I met a chap I used 
to know in India, and he took me along to the club.” 

“Good!” cried Pamela. “I love to hear of your being 
with your own kind.” 

She was not even going to play at having him on a 
toy rein, she told herself proudly. 

“You’ve just time for a bath befo r ' jiw 

“Splendid!” Pamela slipped oil tb f 1 for 

anything. “I shan’t feel really clean u ' * ; e. 

It seems so long since this morning.” 

Langrishe thought that she looked younger " ; i 1 
when she presented herself later for his inspect. 1, in a 
black tulle with a Nattier blue sash knotted loosely 
round her hips, a blue ribbon in her soft, dark hair, and 
his pendant gleaming on her breast. Thrusting one of 
his roses into her sash, she asked, half-shyly, half-pro- 
vocatively: 

“Will I pass muster, do you think, Darner?” 

“You pretty thing!” 

“Ah, but I’m not pretty, my dear.” 


JUNE AND OCTOBER 


125 


“What are you, then?” 

“Great Aunt Lucilla says I am well-looking enough for 
a man’s second venture,” she smiled. “Do you agree?” 

He caught his breath for an instant, feeling suddenly 
as if he looked at her across a gulf of years. Cloak it 
as he would with his boyishness of spirit or zest of living, 
his youth was over. What right had he to bind this 
radiant young creature to his sober middle age? 

Pamela, looking for approbation, saw the grim distance 
in his eyes, and it frightened her. 

“Don’t, Darner!” she cried. “Don’t put me away from 
you like that.” 

He drew her to him, wondering at her intuition. 

“Pam! Little girl!” 

“No, no!” she cried wildly, moving restlessly in his 
arms. “I’m not a little girl! Don’t call me that. You 
stifle me. I’m not even a girl at all. I’m a woman—your 
woman, aren’t I, Darner?” 

you are,” he soothed. “My own dear 

r 

..ike that. You must never think me 
(J ything; never pretend to be old or aloof. 
:g I couldn’t stand. Do you think me an 
~r ?” she exclaimed, sobering suddenly. 

3 pnk you want your dinner,” he returned pro¬ 
saically, but he squeezed her arm as he said it. 

She was flushed with excitement and a touch of shame 
at her outburst as she entered the big dining-room by his 
side. She would have liked to think, for his sake, that 
she was creating a sensation, but modesty, that virtue so 
inculcated by the candid comments of younger sisters, 
forbade such a flattering implication. 

Yet if Pamela Langrishe were not strictly beautiful, 
she owned a sparkle, an attraction that drew more than 


“Of cc 

wo mar 
“V 

tp 


126 


STOLEN HONEY 


one pair of eyes to her as she moved to their table with 
her husband. 

Heloise Waring, in particular, looked up eagerly at 
their entry, from the special corner where she was dining 
with some friends. Her expression changed subtly at 
sight of Pamela’s unexpected freshness. 

“Look! There are the bride and bridegroom I was 
telling you about,” she murmured to Mrs. Talbot. “She 
came out on the Syria with me.” 

“Those two who have just come in?” 

“Yes.” 

“Not May and December exactly,” said Mrs. Talbot 
brightly. “June and October rather.” 

“More like July and August,” returned Heloise War¬ 
ing, with a sweetness designed to distract attention from 
the bitterness of her words. “She must be over thirty, 
and he’s only about forty. His first wife was a friend 
of mine, so I know.” 

“She doesn’t look that,” mused Mrs. Talbot. “Her 
complexion-” 

“Complexions are so easily bought!” smiled Mrs. War¬ 
ing. “Still, Pamela Langrishe has a wonderfully fresh 
effect for her age, I must say. She is the type that 
cannot sparkle without a man, though. She was as dull 
as ditchwater, her chaperon told me, until a youth she 
knew came aboard at Marseilles. After that she grew 
rejuvenated. It’s evidently the same now.” 

“I know the type.” 

Mrs. Talbot smiled and changed the conversation, won¬ 
dering how the bride had fallen foul of her friend. 

“I suppose Heloise wanted the young man for herself,” 
she thought charitably. “It couldn’t have been the hus¬ 
band, for he was all those miles away. Poor Heloise 


JUNE AND OCTOBER 127 

herself is never happy unless she has a man. How blind 
some people are!” 

Heloise Waring had never paused to analyse the secret 
of her feelings towards Pamela. It was a complex emo¬ 
tion, based upon an undeniable substratum of envy. With¬ 
out admitting it, she was vaguely jealous of the girl’s 
ybung charm, of the youth that was no longer her own, 
whose gifts were one by one slipping from her eager, 
clutching hands. 

True, her skin was still white and smooth, her eyes 
bright and clear,. Her bill for face creams and lotions was 
no concern of anyone but herself. If she frequently 
washed her hair with a shampoo which brightened its 
fading tints, every fair-haired woman did the same. 

Heloise Waring valued her position as wife of a man so 
absorbed in his work as to leave her absolutely free, and 
so simple in his tastes that the spending of his not incon¬ 
siderable fortune was almost entirely in her hands, far 
too highly to jeopardise it by any other than the most 
open and platonic of friendships. These, as far as they 
went, she jealously safeguarded. The young men whom 
she so charmingly mothered must have no other substitute 
maternity than her own. Her great ambition, unrealised 
as yet, was to be the Egeria of some rising young states¬ 
man or diplomatist. Failing that, to be the inspiration 
of a really successful man would be no inconsiderable 
makeshift. 

Searching her horizon for promising dawns, a chance 
meeting with Sir John Crooke, the millionaire contractor, 
had directed her regard to Darner Langrishe, of whom he 
spoke as a coming man on whom he had his eye. 

He had vanished from her ken, more or less, with the 
death of his wife, but now, following the direction of Sir 


128 


STOLEN HONEY 


John’s eye, she was rather surprised to find how large he 
suddenly bulked. Putting two and two together, .she 
decided that the resultant sum indicated a winter in Egypt. 
Thither she repaired to wait events with a confidence 
based on the good fortune which usually attended her 
little ventures. 

Filled with big, vague hopes and formless desires which 
needed but the touch of th,e concrete to transform them 
into something largely definite, Heloise Waring had 
stepped on board of the Syria at Marseilles, only to be con¬ 
fronted at the outset by this pert little David of a girl, 
whose sling held stones enough to slay untimely every one 
of her shadowy Goliaths. 

That had been the unadmitted head and front of Pam¬ 
ela’s offending. With a fresh young wife no man would 
want a mature Egeria, at least not yet. 

The saving clause sprang to buttress hope in Heloise 
Waring’s breast. 

A brainless flirt like Pamela could not content any man 
like Darner Langrishe for long. The time would surely 
come when he would turn for sympathy and understand¬ 
ing to a woman of his own day and generation, a woman 
who knew the world of men and things as she knew it; 
not this—this flighty rustic, with nothing but a flippant 
tongue and a pair of ridiculously blue eyes to commend 
her. 

After dinner she found herself speaking to the “flighty 
rustic” with forgiving sweetness. 

“I want you and Darner to meet my friends, Mr. and 
Mrs. Talbot and Major Lundy. Will you have coffee 
on the terrace with us? It’s rather nice there in the 
evenings.” 

“It sounds delightful,” said Pamela as cordially as she 
could, remembering her ante-prandial lecture. “But, 


JUNE AND OCTOBER 


129 

you see, everything is new and fresh to me. Until now I 
have been so seldom out of Ireland/' 

“Except for your little trip to Cornwall last summer,” 
Mrs. Waring reminded her. 

“Oh, I’ve been in England a couple of times,” Pamela 
said lightly, casting a glance towards her husband to see 
if he noticed how she had profited by her lesson. 

Mrs. Waring noticed the look, and drew her own con¬ 
clusions. 

“Ahmed will bring our coffee to my own special table,” 
she said. “This one in the corner over here.” 

“I say, you have the knack of securing topping places, 
Mrs. Waring,” declared Major Lundy, a fair, youthful- 
looking man. 

Mrs. Waring smiled at him. “I assure you they come 
to me,” she answered. “I must be one of the lucky ones 
of the earth, for I never have to struggle for anything.” 

“That must be shockingly bad for your character,” 
Langrishe said with a laugh. 

“It’s formed by now,” she demurred. 

“I should say that the only one of us who is at all 
malleable still is Mrs. Langrishe,” said Mrs. Talbot, glanc¬ 
ing round the group, her gaze resting on Pamela, who was 
gaily chattering about hunting to her husband. 

She met Mrs. Talbot’s eyes at the challenge. 

“I’m afraid even my education isn’t yet complete,” 
she admitted. “I’m still learning English grammar! My 
husband declares that I don’t know the difference be¬ 
tween shall and will!” 

“That girl is no flirt,” thought Mrs. Talbot, noting the 
limpid sincerity of Pamela’s regard. “I wonder why 
Heloise has got her knife in her ? She is several years on 
the sunny side of thirty still, I’m sure, and I’ll bet my 
bottom dollar that she never bought her complexion.” 


130 


STOLEN HONEY 


Aloud she quoted the hackneyed example: “I will be 
drowned! I will be drowned! No one shall save me!” 
That’s what your fellow-countryman said, isn’t it, Mrs. 
Langrishe ?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know. What fellow-countryman?” 

“Perhaps it was Mr. Doran,” Mrs. Waring put in, 
with an inscrutable smile. “What part of Egypt is he 
in now, Mrs. Langrishe?” 

“You ought to know better than I,” Pamela returned, 
flushing a little in spite of herself. 

“Do you mean to say he hasn’t written to you? How 
very remiss of him!” 

“Why would he write to me? He doesn’t even know 
my address.” 

“What Doran is that?” Langrishe asked. 

Pamela turned to him with a swift sense of relief. 

“It’s Tim Doran. One of the Ballyclough Dorans, 
don’t you remember? No; I think they had left before 
you came to Carrigrennan that last time. I told you he 
was on the Syria as far as Port Said, didn’t I ?” 

“Did you? I’d forgotten,” returned Langrishe in¬ 
differently. 

“She never told him. She’s brazening it out now be¬ 
cause we’re here,” thought Heloise Waring with a little 
thrill of triumph. 

“I wonder if you mean Tubby Doran?” asked Major 
Lundy. 

“Tubby?” echoed Pamela. 

“He was attached to the R. A. F. when we were at 
Cambrai. We called him Tubby because he was such a 
tall, thin chap. Very freckled. Spoke with a drawl.” 

“That must have been Tim,” cried Pamela excitedly. 
“We called him ‘turkey egg’ when we were children, on 
account of his freckles.” 


JUNE AND OCTOBER 


131 

Mrs. Talbot laughed, and shot a glance at Heloise War¬ 
ing, a glance which said as plainly as words; “I've heard 
many odd love names, but never one so blatantly un¬ 
sentimental as ‘turkey egg’!” 

The almost imperceptibly shrugged shoulders and lifted 
eyebrows seemed to answer: “You never can tell to what 
depths of duplicity this over-apparent frankness may 
descend.” 

The sudden rhythm of dance music beat out upon the 
warm night air. Pamela lifted her head to listen. 

Major Lundy, noting the movement, and responding 
to it, leaned across towards her. 

“There's a dance on here to-night, Mrs. Langrishe. 
Would you care to have a turn?” 

“I'd love it,” cried Pamela, her eyes sparkling at the 
prospect. “But-” she looked round the circle du¬ 

biously, “did anybody else want to dance?” 

Mrs. Talbot rose. She was feeling bored. There 
would probably be several men she knew in the ballroom. 

“Let’s all go,” she suggested. 

“Darner, won’t you come?” 

Langrishe, smiling, took out his half-smoked cigar. 
“Run away and play, little girl; I’ll bring Mrs. Waring 
in presently, if she cares to come.” 

Under a calm exterior, Heloise Waring’s pulses began 
to throb. She had not pulled her strings in vain, after 
all. Was not this big puppet already beginning to dance 
to her manipulation? 

He sat there, well content, enjoying the fragrance of 
an excellent cigar and the society of a clever woman, 
who employed all the arts at her command to please him. 


CHAPTER XIV 


PAMELA BEGINS TO MAKE A HOME 

The garden of the house at El-Armut was the strangest 
that Pamela, used as she was to the perfumed luxuriance, 
the tangled wealth of Irish green, had ever seen. 

There were no vivid lawns to set off the gay mosaic of 
flowers; no grass even; no beds, no borders as she knew 
them. Nothing but tracts of bare earth divided by flam¬ 
ing hedges of poinsettias or hibiscus and studded for¬ 
mally, as in some mediaeval picture, with great rose-bushes, 
oleanders or orange-trees, each sliding in its own dry, 
scooped-out well. 

These the gardener filled twice daily with water from 
a shaggy goat-skin, procured from the sakkiyeh, or water¬ 
wheel, at the end of the garden. This, turned by a fawn 
bullock driven by a small boy, stretched along the shaft, 
sent a circling chain of earthenware pots down into the 
Nile below, which came up, spilling jewels of gold and 
silver water over their dripping, red sides. 

The house, too, cream-washed and square, with its 
flat-topped roof and green sun-shutters, was unlike the 
houses she had hitherto known. The rooms were bare 
and lofty; the furniture, hastily procured, followed no 
definite scheme of decoration. 

Pamela thought the place empty, and unhomelike; 
the garden strangely unloveable. Only the view appealed; 
the great stretch of gleaming river with its farther palm- 
fringed shore, behind which the spurs of the Arabian 
132 


PAMELA BEGINS TO MAKE A HOME 133 


Hills rose tan and amber against a brilliantly blue sky; 
its sandy islets and its drifting Nile-boats, beautiful with 
their great peaked sails tilted like butterflies’ wings against 
the shimmer of water, their high prows painted in faded 
reds and yellows; their cargoes of dead gold straw and 
snowy limestone adding another touch of colour-magic 
to the fantasy. 

Langrishe found no fault with anything. He plunged 
at once into his work with a zest that showed a new side 
of him to Pamela. 

If she had not been so busy she might have felt lonely 
at first, for there were only three other English women 
in the place, the wives of the bank manager, the English 
judge and the irrigation inspector. With the latter, Mrs. 
Durrant, she felt most at home. 

Mrs. Durrant was a gentle, rather pretty young woman 
of about thirty, who had been married for six years and 
had two fascinating babies. She lived in another house 
on the river-bank nearer town than the Langrishes , 
abode; and she took Pamela under her wing from the 
very first. 

“We’re both engineering and irrigation people after 
a fashion,” she said with a smile that showed quite a girl¬ 
ish dimple. “We must stick together.” 

Pamela was nothing loth. 

“I like your big man,” Mrs. Durrant chattered on. 
“He makes such a delightful contrast to my little one! 
Jim has a great opinion of him, which, however, has 
nothing to do with his inches.” 

“Mr. Durrant is a dear,” began Pamela enthusiasti¬ 
cally, then checked herself. When would she learn to con¬ 
trol her emotions and keep people guessing as to what 
she felt? 


134 


STOLEN HONEY 


Mrs. Durrant laughed. 

“You don’t want an exchange, I hope, for I warn 
you that it wouldn’t be of the least use.” 

“No, I don’t want an exchange,” answered Pamela 
decisively, knowing that she would not change her man 
for anyone else in the world. Then she returned to 
business. “Now, Mrs. Durrant, what about those cur¬ 
tains? You promised me your advice.” 

With Mrs. Durrant’s invaluable help, Pamela procured 
some deep blue native cotton, with which she covered 
chairs and couches, and hung as curtains for her tall 
drawing-room windows. She had brought with her some 
lengths of gaily-patterned cretonnes, in boldly harmonious 
tones of green and orange, terra-cotta and blue, of which 
she made cushions innumerable. 

Down in the native bazaar she bought some cheap 
but beautifully shaped jars of red earthenware, which 
she filled with branches of flaming oleanders and a shrub 
whose name she did not know, which had tight bunches 
of blossoms in every shade of yellow, from the palest sul¬ 
phur to deepest saffron, glowing amid its small green 
leaves. 

When she had put out some of her photographs and 
wedding-presents, she sat down to look at what she had 
done with a little glow of pride, longing for Darner to 
come home and admire her handiwork. 

The little silver clock on the high mantelpiece chimed a 
clear, assertive four. Pamela sighed. He would not be 
in for at least half an hour. When he came he would 
probably bring some man or other with him. Mr. Mar¬ 
shall, who was at work on the Barrage, Mr. Durrant or 
perhaps M. de Marsac, a young Frenchman who was in 
charge of some excavations outside the town, towards the 
foot of the tawny Libyan Hills. 


PAMELA BEGINS TO MAKE A HOME 135 

Pamela, with a half smile, reflected that she had not 
met as many men in the whole of her previous life as 
she had done since she set out on her great adventure. 
Egypt was truly a man’s country, she thought, remem¬ 
bering her husband’s words. A sphinx with her hands 
full of gifts, which the immemorial mystery of her eyes, 
the eternal secret of her smile, dared them to wrest from 
her. 

She was still wondering what she would do to fill up 
the intervening half-hour when a slight stir in the hall 
without attracted her attention. An instant later, and 
Hassan, the tall servant, dignified in flowing robe of 
striped, lemon-tinted silk and red tarbush, opened the 
door and announced: 

“Mista Done to see the sitt.” 

Mr. Done! Another stranger to call upon her! 

Pamela rose to greet the unknown, only to find her 
hands warmly grasped by a beaming Tim Doran. 

“Why, Timsy, where did you spring from? What a 
lovely surprise!” she cried in genuine delight. 

“I sprang from Tahta, not so far up the river. I 
heard just by chance yesterday that a chap named Lan- 
grishe had come to the Barrage here, and wondering if 
by any chance it was your Langrishe I came down to 
prospect to-day.” 

“And it was my Langrishe!” cried Pamela excitedly. 
“Oh, Tim, you lamb, you couldn’t have come at a better 
time. I had just finished settling the drawing-room and 
wanted someone to admire it. What do you think of it ?” 

“I think it’s absolutely tophole,” answered Doran 
enthusiastically. 

The fact that he had about as much artistic taste as a 
tomtit could carry across a bog, mattered to neither of 
them. 


136 


STOLEN HONEY 


“I’m so glad you like it. I hope Darner will. He 
hasn’t seen it since it was finished,” said Pamela. ... “Sit 
down, Tim dear, and tell me all about everything.” 

“There’s nothing much to tell, Pam. I’m feeling very 
fit. My stable companion’s an awfully decent chap named 
Gray. I like my job and I think the country’s all right. 
There you have it in a nutshell.” 

Pamela laughed happily. 

“It is good to see you again, Timsy! I was beginning 
to feel as if I had been enchanted away from everything 
and everyone I’d ever known. I haven’t had any home 
letters yet, because we left India again almost directly 
I’d landed. I’m expecting a nice fat mail this week. But 
tell me more about yourself. You’re looking better.” 

“I’m feeling as fit as a fiddle. My jolly old work is 
great sport, Pam, and I get on with the Arab johnnies a 
treat.” 

“I’m sure you do.” She hesitated for a moment, then, 
womanlike, delayed for his romance. “Have you—have 
you left off caring for that girl, Tim?” 

Doran screwed up his eyes and laughed all over his 
comical freckled face. 

“You’re a funny kid, Pam, in spite of your being 
married!” 

“Funny? In what way?” she asked, stiffening a 
little. 

“Don’t you know that a chap doesn’t leave off caring 
just like that all at once?” 

Underneath his surface gaiety Pamela divined a hurt 
at her non-comprehension. This affair had gone deeper 
than she had thought. She hastened to make amends. 

“Forgive me, Timsy boy! I didn’t understand.” 

“Tell me about yourself,” Doran commanded a little 
gruffly. “You’re looking ripping, I must say. A different 


PAMELA BEGINS TO MAKE A HOME 137 

girl from what you were on the Syria. I needn’t ask if 
you’re happy.” 

“I am. I am indeed,” she answered softly, her face 
lit up as with some inner joy. 

“Then you ought to have known.” Doran looked at 
her for a moment, half in wonder, half in envy, wholly 
curious as to what manner of man this Langrishe was who 
had illumined his old playfellow like this. 

He knew a moment later when the door opened to admit 
two men, Langrishe and a slight, dark man of medium 
height with clipped moustache above a wary mouth, and 
eyes which looked a trifle weary with all they had seen. 

“I’ve brought de Marsac back to tea, Pam,” Langrishe 
said, then stopped at sight of the unexpected stranger. 

Pamela rose, vivid in her excitement. 

“Darner, the most delightful surprise! My old friend, 
Tim Doran, who came out as far as Port Said on the Syria 
with me. Tim, my husband. M. de Marsac, Mr. Doran.” 

Langishe took Doran’s hand in his usual warm grip. 
He rather liked the look of this young fellow, with his 
freckled face and honest eyes. 

The two younger men bowed, eyeing each other almost 
as might two dogs about to fight. One of those reason¬ 
less, instinctive antagonisms, impossible to analyse, sprang 
to birth in that instant’s regard. 

“A graceless English cub!” was the flick of de Marsac’s 
contemptuous thought. 

“A mincing French dancing-master!” growled Doran’s 
insular prejudice, unimpaired in this instance by having 
fought side by side with Frenchmen who minced no more 
than he did himself. 

Conversation became general with the advent of tea. 
After a little, as usually was the case, it merged into “shop” 
with the two engineers. 


138 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Let us leave them to their technicalities, M. de Marsac,” 
said Pamela at last. “Come out on the terrace with 
me and watch the Nile boats. I never tire of them.” 

“Ah, that appreciation of beauty, madame, it is the 
gift of le bon Dieu said de Marsac softly. He spoke 
excellent English, for which Pamela was truly thankful, 
as her French did not even approach the standard of 
Stratford-atte-Bowe. 

De Marsac was a student of mankind, a specialist in 
women. Pamela was a new type to him, and he was an 
electric amateur of new types. Some quality of freshness, 
of unexpectedness about her attracted him, but not 
amatively. She held no spark to fire him, no lure to entice 
him from the path of fidelity to a man whom he liked as 
much as he did Langrishe. 

“This white-heart cherry has not my savour,” he 
admitted, half virtuously, half reluctantly. 

He had the arts to charm women at his finger-tips, and 
he set himself out now to amuse his hostess. 

After all, a pretty woman was always a pretty woman, 
the more intriguing perhaps if she still had something 
to learn. An hour in the sunshine by flowing water, in 
rose-scented air, was a little gift of the gods not to be 
lightly tossed away after days spent among mummies 
and the dry bones of a dead civilisation. 

Presently Hassan came, so ft-footed, in his yellow 
slippers, across the terrace to them with a silver tray full 
of letters. 

“I cannot find the Mafettish, ya sitt,” he said. “I 
brought these to you.” 

“I’ll give them to him presently,” answered Pamela, 
putting out an eager hand. 

As she took them one letter fell to the ground, a square, 


PAMELA BEGINS TO MAKE A HOME 139 

azure-tinted envelope addressed to Langrishe in large, 
bold characters. 

De Marsac made careless comment as he handed it back 
to her. 

“There is much character in that writing,” he said. 

Pamela glanced at it. 

“It’s from my stepdaughter,” she returned. 

“Your stepdaughter,” echoed de Marsac. “But how 
amusing!” 

“Why amusing, M. de Marsac?” 

“It is indeed droll to think of you, chere madame, with 
a stepdaughter. She is a school-girl, then, this little one ?” 

“Not now. She is grown up. We hope to have her 
out with us later on,” answered Pamela, feeling very 
matronly and dignified. 

“Ah! Une jeune iille a marier., done!” said de Marsac, 
dropping instinctively into his own tongue. 

Pamela hastily answered his thought rather than his 
words. 

“Oh, no, not yet! Dido is much too young to get 
married. She’s only eighteen.” 

“There are different eighteens,” mused de Marsac. 
“It is all a mater of temperament. In my Own country 
still the jeune fille is guarded very much. She is like 
La Belle au iSois Dormant ” he continued, with a rather 
attractive smile. “One must enter the rose-hedge by the 
door of marriage before one can arrive at the sleeping 
princess. In your country, madame, the princess is not 
always asleep beforehand.” 

“Is she always in your country, M. de Marsac?” queried 
Pamela idly, her thoughts reverting to her own case. 

Damer and she had had to plunge through the rose- 
hedge in order to find each other. Suppose that only 


140 


STOLEN HONEY 


thorns had been their portion? Suppose that the roses 
had never been for their plucking? She shivered a little. 

De Marsac, faintly piqued at the obvious wandering of 
her thoughts, rose to take his leave. 

“You will want to read your letters,” he said, bowing 
over her hand. “Au revoir, cJiere madame, and a thou¬ 
sand thanks for your most charming hospitality/’ 

Left to herself Pamela hastily tore open the home 
letters that literally seemed to bring with them the breath 
of bog air, the veritable scent of mist-haunted hills and 
purple heather, dwelling on every homely little detail 
with a hunger whose sharpness she had not realised until 
now that it was satisfied. 

At last, with a sigh of content, she looked up, to see 
Langrishe coming towards her across the terrace. 

She went to meet him, her hands full of tumbled sheets. 

“Grand home letters!” she cried. Then: “Where’s 
Tim? Has he gone without saying good-bye to me?” 

“No, he’s just gone to pay his respects to Mrs. Dur- 
rant. I asked him to come back to dinner. I’d have asked 
de Marsac, too, only-” 

“He went some little time ago,” said Pamela. She 
slipped her hand through her husband’s arm. “Never 
mind them now. I want to have you to myself for a little. 
Darner, I was just dying for you to come back this after¬ 
noon.” 

“Were you, sweetheart? Why?” He stretched out 
his hand for his letters and began to open them as she 
spoke. 

“I wanted you to see the drawing-room. I had it 
finished just as Tim came. What did you think of it?” 

“The drawing-room?” he echoed absently. “Oh, I 
thought it looked topping!” He slit open another 
envelope and sat down on the parapet. 


PAMELA BEGINS TO MAKE A HOME 141 

Pamela felt a quick stab of disappointment. 

“I don’t believe you noticed it at all.” 

“Eh, little girl?” He looked up at her tone. “I 
did, indeed; I saw that you had some of the jars the 
women carry on their heads, with flowers stuck in them.” 

Pamela’s rush of feeling silenced her. Did anyone 
ever make such a stupid, unsatisfactory comment on a 
person’s artistic efforts? Water jugs with flowers stuck 
in them! Here was she, spending her days in trying to 
make a home for Darner, and this was all he had to say 
about it! The worst of it was that he never even noticed 
her disappointment. 

He looked up to demand her interest from where he 
sat on the terrace wall, below which the river sucked and 
gurgled at the stone embankment. 

“This is from Sir John Crooke himself. He’s coming 
out after Christmas to see how the work’s progressing. 
We must have him to stay, Pam.” 

“Of course, if you wish it,” Pamela answered in a 
choked voice. 

Langrishe read on in silence, then shot a glance at her, 
half rueful, half amused. 

“I say, Pam,, isn’t she a monkey?” 

“Who ? What ?” asked Pam, a trifle tartly. 

“Dido. She writes to say she’s on her way out here, 
or will be rather, when this letter reaches me. Didn’t 
I tell you she was a handful? The moment she heard 
we were to be in Egypt, she says, she felt that she couldn’t 
stay in. England any longer. She had to follow the sun!” 
Langrishe paused and looked across the river, now a sheet 
of molten gold reflecting hills of tawny light. 

The sky above was burning blue, flecked with swathes 
and feathers of golden cloud, dazzling in their brilliance, 
until the sun sank suddenly behind the Libyan horizon. 


142 


STOLEN HONEY 


The effect was swift as that of a blown-out flame. The 
hills dulled to bronze, the river darkened save where the 
ripples slashed it with silver, the golden clouds turned 
amber. 

Langrishe repeated musingly: 

“Follow the sun. Now who did I hear use those very 
words the other day?” 

“Your friend Mrs. Waring, probably,” returned Pamela 
icily. “It’s a stock phrase of hers.” 

Langrishe turned at her tone. 

“Pam. What is it?” 

“Oh, nothing.” 

“Come here.” Langrishe held out a compelling hand. 
Pamela moved reluctantly to put hers into it. “What’s 
the matter with you, little girl? Are you annoyed at 
the idea of Dido’s coming out or what?” 

Pamela’s spurt of annoyance flickered out. 

“Or what,” she murmured. “It is because you took 
no interest in the drawing-room, Darner.” 

“Good Heavens, child, what more could I say ? Didn’t 
I tell you it was topping? Didn’t I even notice the old 
goulahs full of flowers? What more does the infant 
want?” 

Darner put his arm around her as he spoke, half amused, 
half exasperated. 

“You mustn’t be such a baby, dear,” he said, in a tone 
which made her want to shake him. “Aren’t you always 
telling me what a woman you are?” 

I am. 

“Well-” he shrugged his big shoulders. 

“You will be wanting some furbelows for Dido’s room. 
I’ll write you a cheque to-morrow.” 

“I don’t want money. What’s money?” cried the 


PAMELA BEGINS TO MAKE A HOME 143 


girl who had never had any. “What can money buy? 
Nothing! Nothing that matters.” 

“You’re right there, sweetheart,” said Langrishe, in 
a tone that soothed her unreasonable annoyance. “It 
can’t buy what I’ve got anyhow, Pam. When are you 
going to kiss me again?” 

“I didn’t know you wanted me to.” 

“Didn’t you?” Langrishe laughed, swung to his 
feet and took her in his arms. “Didn’t you, indeed, 
you dear silly baby?” 

Their lips met and Pamela’s powers of resistance melted 
suddenly. Nothing mattered in that moment of love’s 
renewal, not even the wonderful afterglow, which turned 
the clouds to giant rose-petals, the hills to a flame-tipped 
wonder, and touched the river with a roseate radiance. 


CHAPTER XV 


DIDO MAKES HER BOW 

Pamela worked hard at her Arabic in the mornings, her 
ambition being to take her cook’s accounts in his native 
tongue. The venerable Arab who was her tutor assured 
her that six weeks’ study ought to enable her to do this, 
so Pamela had a definite goal in view. 

Now that she had slipped into a certain routine the 
days glided by almost imperceptibly. Darner’s work 
absorbed most of his time, and left her much alone, but 
gradually Pamela filled the empty hours. 

She found herself looking forward to Dido’s arrival with 
an eagerness which rather surprised her. Unconsciously 
she missed the give and take, the quick come and go of 
the girlish companionship which had always been hers; 
missed it even more than she realised. She pictured Dido 
as another Kitty, spoilt, perhaps, but gay and full of 
young enthusiasms. More sophisticated than Kitty, 
probably, with greater initiative and a stronger will. 
Kitty, for instance, would never have dreamed of setting 
out for Egypt alone, without as much as “By your leave.” 

This amused Darner. It rather perturbed Pamela. 
Sometimes she wondered how it would be when the two 
wills came in contact; what would happen in the clash? 
It would be very good for Dido to be mastered. The 
spoiling process had gone on long enough. Yet at times 
Pamela’s tender heart melted at the thought of a little 
thwarted Dido, unhappy, and in tears. She could never 
bear to see Kitty cry, even though she knew that hers 
144 


DIDO MAKES HER BOW 


145 


were but April showers, as quickly over as begun. It 
never occurred to her that Damer might not be able to 
master his daughter. 

Anticipation quickened as the day of the girl's arrival 
drew nearer. It would be delightful to have someone 
really young about the place again. Someone who would 
want her, would lean on her companionship; someone to 
whom she might be a real genuine friend, and elder sister 
rather than the traditional step-mother. 

That Dido was kindly disposed to her, her one little 
letter testified. Pamela might not have felt quite so 
whole-heartedly enthusiastic over her coming had Damer 
read aloud to her the whole, instead of merely half of 
Dido’s postscript to his own letter: 

“Give my love to Pam. It will be rather amusing, 
Dad, to see you en secondes noces” 

Langrishe himself was going down to Port Said to 
meet her. This meant an early start for him and a 
long, lonely day for Pamela which left several hours un¬ 
filled even after she had done every necessary and uneces* 
sary thing of which she could think. At last she had 
the inspiration of sending a note to Mrs. Durrant to in¬ 
vite her to tea with her, and she was unfeignedly glad to 
see her enter her cool, flower-decked drawing-room at 
four o’clock. 

“Have you asked me to come and condole with you?” 
queried Monica Durrant, as she sank on the divan near 
the tea-table. 

“Condole ?” echoed Pamela, a little startled. “Oh 
you mean on my loneliness.” 

“No, I mean on being obliged to have your step-daughter 
out. It is rather a nuisance, isn’t it?” she answered, as 
she pulled off her gloves,. 


146 


STOLEN HONEY 


“I never thought of it in that light,” cried Pamela. 
“Pm quite looking forward to Dido’s coming. She will be 
great company for me when Darner’s out.” 

“Well, but when he’s in?” pursued Mrs. Durrant with 
interest. “Will she efface herself then?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know her at all, I think you said.” 

“I haven’t seen her since she was eight, ten years ago,” 
Pamela admitted. 

“Where has she been at school ?” 

“Cheltenham.” 

“She will be a typical modern girl, then,” mused Mrs. 
Durrant. “Do forgive me for being so personal, but do 
you know anything of the -modern girl ?” 

“I know myself and my sisters,” answered Pamela, 
flushing a little. “And, of course, all the other girls in 
our neighbourhood, but-” 

“Ah, but that’s just it,’ interrupted Mrs. Durrant. 
“Of course, Miss Langrishe may be just as natural and 
unaffected as you are, but yet again, she may not.” 

“I asked you to come and cheer me up,” Pamela 
reproached her. 

Mrs. Durrant smiled. 

“I know. It’s horrid of me to be so pessimistic, but do 
you know, I’ve often wondered how any woman could 
have the courage to become a step-mother!” 

“Why? Is it such a very difficult position?” 

“My dear, it is an impossible one! To make it a suc¬ 
cess one would require the tact of a diplomatist, the for¬ 
bearance of an angel, the patience of Job and Griselda 
rolled into one, to say nothing of the wisdom of the ser¬ 
pent and the gentleness of the dove!” 

“You terrify me!” cried Pamela. “For I’m afraid I 
have none of those qualities in any superlative degree.” 


DIDO MAKES HER BOW 


147 


“You have your own share of them,” Mrs. Durrant 
assured her. “Probably your charge will give you no 
trouble. You have plenty of men to amuse her at any 
rate.” 

“Men?” echoed Pamela, seeing a rather alarming vista 
of possibilities,. 

Mrs. Durrant nodded wisely. 

“Miss Dido will probably have the time of her life here. 
Just think of all those nice young men at the Barrage, 
to say nothing of your dear Mr. Doran and the fascinating 
M. de Marsac? Of them all I should say that the latter 
is the only one who is in the least dangerous.” 

“Do you think M. de Marsac dangerous?” asked 
Pamela perturbed. 

“He might be to a young girl. The attraction of 
sex-” she broke off. “He—there is something unu¬ 

sual about him. He—has an undoubted effect on women, 
I 'think. Oh, yes; he might certainly be classed as danger 
ous.” 

“Darner likes him. ,, 

“So does Jim. He says he's a very decent chap. But 
—he’s not a woman!” 

“Perhaps he won’t appeal to Dido.” 

“It will all depend on her temperament. Oh, I don’t 
mean to be intense or anything of that sort,” Mrs. Durrant 
went on, shaking up a cushion behind her. “I am a great 
believer in girls buying their own experience and learning 
their world for themselves, only-” 

“Only what?” queried Pamela anxiously. 

“Only—I don’t like young things to be hurt,” confessed 
Mrs. Durrant softly. “And an innocent young girl would 
have very little chance against a fascinating man of the 
world like de Marsac, if he set himself out to make love 
to her.” 


148 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Ah, but in France-” began Pamela eagerly. 

“We’re not in France now, my dear,” Monica Durrant 
reminded her. “Nor even in England. We’re in the hot- 
blooded East, where girls are women at twelve, and a 
flower will bloom and die in an hour!” 

“You frighten me,” Pamela breathed. 

“I don’t mean to. In plain English, I suppose what I 
am really trying to say is that de Marsac isn’t a marrying 
man.” 

“Oh, is that all?” 

Mrs. Durrant nodded. To her half-amused, half-pity¬ 
ing intuition, Pamela Langrishe’s relief was the very 
measure of her unsophistication. Monica Durrant’s own 
youth had known the very experience from which she 
would fain have shielded Dido Langrishe, only she did not 
yet know Pamela sufficiently well to tell her so. She 
had come, like old Mrs. Carey, safely into harbour since 
then, bringing a cargo of quiet joys to port, but it had 
been a bitter ordeal, and had laid a touch as of frost 
upon her youth. 

She turned the subject now to some wonderful witti¬ 
cism of Winkle and Twinkle, her babies. Pamela was 
an excellent listener. Her blue eyes sparkled or grew 
tender, her warm, generous mouth widened to a smile 
or curved in a wondering sweetness at the mother’s reci¬ 
tal. 

As Mrs. Durrant rose to go, she laid her hand on the 
other’s arm. 

“I do hope you’ll have babies of your own,” she ex¬ 
claimed impulsively. “You’d like to, wouldn’t you?” 

“I’ve always wanted dozens!” cried Pamela, blushing 
rosily. 

“Come home and have dinner with me, and I’ll let you 



DIDO MAKES HER BOW 


149 

bathe Twinkle. The train isn’t due till about nine. I’ll 
see that you are back here in plenty of time.” 

“I have thought of going to the station,” began Pamela, 
with the hospitable Irish instinct of meeting the welcome 
guest. 

“Then you must unthink the idea at once. Mr. Lan- 
grishe wouldn’t like it at all, I’m sure.” 

“Wouldn’t he?” 

“No. There are always crowds to meet that evening 
train,. It would be most unpleasant for you. Jim shall 
see you home immediately after dinner if you like, so that 
you can have a look round here before they arrive.” 

“How awfully good you are to me!” cried Pamela 
gratefully. “I don’t know what I should have done with¬ 
out you.” 

“Nonsense, my dear. I’ve been a bride in a strange 
country myself and I know just how odd everything feels 
at first You’re adapting yourself wonderfully, I think.” 

“We Irish are supposed to be adaptable people,” said 
Pamela. 

She felt a surge of gratitude towards this kindly woman 
who had taken pity on her loneliness and admitted her into 
the personal intimacy of her home. 

As she stood in Dido’s bedroom later, looking round 
to see that nothing had been forgotten, she planned a 
little dinner-party in the girl’s honour: just the Durrants 
and themselves and—yes—Tim Doran. Matchmaking 
plans bubbled to the surface of her mind. Tim should be 
the only young man. He should have a chance of meet¬ 
ing Dido before any of the others. How delightful if 
anything really came of it! Dido, little Dido, Darner’s 
only child, ought to be nice enough to erase the memory 
of that other girl from dear old Timsy’s mind! 


STOLEN HONEY 


150 

The sound of wheels on the drive below sent Pamela 
flying down the stairs. 

A rose-shaded lamp standing on a table placed against 
a black mushrabiyeh screen suffused the hall with a mellow 
glow, softening its bareness. 

Pamela, slim and girlish in her simple wedding-frock, 
with a rose tucked into her belt, ran with outstretched 
hands to meet the travellers as they entered. 

“Well, Pam, here we are. I’ve brought you your new 
daughter, you see!” Langrishe’s voice held, besides its 
touch of pride, a ring of some other emotion which Pamela 
could not interpret. What was it—amusement, curiosity, 
apprehension ? Ora mingling of all three ? She did not 
know. 

A little figure stepped into the rosy pool of lamplight, 
small almost as the child Dido, Pamela thought, at her 
first startled glance, A little figure dressed in the last 
word of smartness, in a fawn travelling coat, suede shoes 
and silk stockings, close little fawn hat with one daring 
orange quill twined round its brim. A white-skinned 
face, elfin in its peaked prettiness, was turned up to be 
kissed as two great dark eyes, incongruous in such a set¬ 
ting, took f.ull stock of the welcoming figure. 

“But how absurd, dad,” cried a silver-clear, high- 
pitched voice. “I think it is Pam who looks young 
enough to be my daughter, not I hers.” 

* ’Pon my word, Dido, I believe you’re right,” ex¬ 
claimed Langrishe, with an amused laugh. 

“You’re very welcome,” said Pamela softly, stooping 
to kiss this strangely sophisticated stepdaughter, who was 
so utterly different from what she had expected. 

Here was no second Kitty, whatever else she might 
prove to be! 

Dido laughed. The sound was like a clear tinkling 


DIDO MAKES HER BOW 


151 

peal of elfin bells, Pamela thought; very pretty and musi¬ 
cal, but a trifle soulless withal; it chilled her warm im¬ 
pulses a little. 

"Just the same dear old brogue!” she cried. "Pam, 
you haven’t turned a hair since I last saw you all those 
years ago, in Ireland!” 

The aplomb, the exquisite finish and complete assur¬ 
ance of the little creature, made Pamela feel at once 
large, awkward and insignificant. 

"You’ve changed, Dido,” she said. "I’d never have 
known you.” 

"I should hope not,” Dido answered fervently. "I 
was very raw material in those days.” 

"You’re a tolerably finished product now, at any rate,” 
smiled Langrishe. ‘‘Have you no welcome for me, 
Pam ?” 

"Of course I have,” exclaimed Pamela, going round 
to where he stood and putting up her face to his. 

Somehow she felt shy of any demonstration before 
those critical, dark eyes. 

Dido smiled faintly as she watched their embrace. 
She felt in some odd way immeasurably older, immeasur¬ 
ably more sophisticated than these two. She had made 
tentative explorations of her father’s character during 
the journey from Port Said, and had decided that up 
to a certain point he was easily manageable. Beyond 
that point—well, she might never be obliged to go, so 
the rest lay on the lap of the gods. As for Pamela, she 
had been rather a lamb in those long ago days. She was 
probably quite a good sort now, even if a little old- 
fashioned. Dido by no means made the current mistake 
of her generation in relegating all the old-fashioned vir¬ 
tues to limbo. She was quite aware that some of them 
had their uses still, and she was not at all displeased to 


152 


STOLEN HONEY 


find that in no sense could her father’s second wife be 
considered a rival of her own more up to date charms. 

Vaguely disappointed Pamela suggested a move up¬ 
stairs. 

“You’d like a wash before your supper,” she said. 
“I’ve had hot water put in your room.” 

“I should,” returned Langrishe. “I hope you didn’t 
wait dinner for us, Pam. We had something on the 
train.” 

“No. I dined with the Durrants. I was thinking of 
going to the station to meet you, but Mrs. Durrant said 
she thought you’d rather I didn’t.” 

“Sensible woman. She was quite right.” 

“This is your room, Dido,” said Pamela. “If you 
haven’t everything you want just let me know and I’ll 
get it for you.” 

Langrishe glanced appraisingly round the cool, white 
room, with its snowy curtained bed in one corner, its 
green vase of long-stemmed pink roses on the dressing- 
table. 

“ I say, you have made it look nice, Pam! Hasn’t she, 
Dido?” 

“Ripping!” returned the girl perfunctorily. To her 
luxury-loving eyes it looked bare, almost penurious. 
She tilted a contemptuous little nose at Pam’s roses. 
They were far too banal to please her taste. Scarlet- 
tongued poinsettias or flaming hibiscus would have suited 
her better, but she couldn’t very well say so. After all, 
these dear old things were being as decent as they knew 
how! She pulled off her hat and thrust her fingers 
through her bobbed mass of red-gold hair. 

It was a strange colour, Pamela thought, almost the 
tint of a brand new penny. 

“My room is next door,” she said. “And your father’s 


DIDO MAKES HER BOW 


153 


dressing-room and the bathroom just beyond. Your 
window opens on to a sort of loggia outside, which runs 
past my room as well. There’s a lovely view of the river 
from it.” 

“How ripping!” said Dido. “A river means move¬ 
ment and life. I suppose you can see all the steamers 
going by?” 

“You can. You can see the beginning of the Barrage, 
too.” 

Dido sighed luxuriously. She fancied that she was 
going quite to enjoy her new experience. 

Langrishe drew Pamela into their bedroom and shut 
the door. 

“Now kiss me properly,” he commanded, putting his 
arms around her. 

Pamela surrendered her lips with a sigh of content, 
“I thought the day would never end.” 

“You missed me, then?” 

“Of course I missed you.” 

“And I you.” He looked down into her eyes. “Well, 
Pam?” he questioned significantly. 

“Well, Darner?” she echoed, looking back at him with 
slightly raised brows. 

Langrishe wrinkled up his eyes and nose in a comical 
way. “I believe, Pam, that we’ve hatched out a phoenix- 
egg instead of the nice little barn-door chick we were 
expecting to find! What do you think?” 

“I am inclined to agree with you,” said Pamela. 


CHAPTER XVI 


TUBBY 

After breakfast next morning Damer Langrishe went 
off to the Barrage, leaving his womenfolk to make bet¬ 
ter acquaintance. 

Seen by the light of day, Dido proved to be more ar¬ 
resting than merely pretty. Hers was a face so vivid, so 
full of possibilities, that it would stand out in the memory 
when other and lovelier women were forgotten. 

At morning sight of her Pamela’s vague, fond hopes 
fled like mist before the sun. Here was no little sister, 
no young nestling to be guarded and carefully launched 
upon a troublous world. This small winged thing was 
fully fledged already, and capable of flights before which 
Pamela’s spirit would quail. She had to readjust all her 
preconceived ideas before they could possibly find any 
common meeting-ground. 

She made tentative advances, which Dido met in a 
friendly spirit, but the first obvious differences between 
them were evidenced in their respective trousseaux. 

“Show me your things,” Dido commanded as soon as 
Langrishe had left them together. 

Pamela, with some pride, had displayed her modest 
outfit to the dark appraising eyes. 

“Quite nice.” Dido nodded her golden mop approv¬ 
ingly over one or two items, but shook it at the rest. 
“You should have gone to some really good woman, Pam, 
for your decent frocks; Colette, in Sloane Street, is 
quite good, I believe.” 


154 


TUBBY 


155 


“I couldn’t afford to go to any of those really smart 
places,” Pamela admitted disappointedly. “My things 
are good enough for El-Armut, at any rate. And 
yours ?” 

“Oh, mine are far too good,” said Dido frankly. “But 
I got the very latest when I had the chance. Grandad 
gave me a nice fat cheque, so I went to the best French 
dressmaker in Cheltenham, a really ripping woman.” 

“What’s the good of having clothes that are too smart 
to wear here?” 

“I’m not going to stay here all the winter, Pam.” Dido’s 
eyes shot sparks of mischief. 

“Aren’t you? What are you going to do, then?’ asked 
Pamela, with a rather helpless feeling. 

“I’m going to stay for a while in Cairo with Mrs. 
Waring.” 

“Mrs. Waring?” 

“Yes. You know her, don’t you? We had to wait 
an hour or so in Cairo yesterday and had tea at Groppi’s 
with her. She suggested it then, and dad seemed quite 
agreeable. She says she’s going to stay with us later on.” 

“She is. On her way to Luxor,” answered Pamela 
flatly. 

“She was a great friend of mother’s,” Dido rattled on, 
displaying garment after garment of such exquisite cut 
and line that Pamela was reduced to the speechless state 
of the Queen of Sheba. “She has worn awfully well, 
I must say. As a rule those fair women age rather 
quickly, but she looks wonderfully fresh still. Poor old 
Louisa! That was her name originally. I remember 
mother saying so long ago, but she changed it to Heloise 
when she was at school, because she thought it sounded 
more romantic! She’s a clever woman in her way, but 
not quite clever enough to see that the name doesn’t 


STOLEN HONEY 


156 

really suit her. She is much too self-centred ever to be 
une grande amoureuse! Don’t you agree ? Too much of 
a posense!” 

“I suppose so,” Pamela murmured, feeling too dazed 
to cope with such a flood of candid criticism. 

‘‘You’re too polite to say so!” laughed Dido. “Well, 
you need have no consideration for Louisa. She’s got her 
knife into you for some reason or other. She can’t have 
wanted dad for herself, for she’s got a husband tucked 
away somewhere. I believe when her youth began to 
wane that she got the poor little shrimp into a corner 
out of which he could back no further, and ordered him 
to marry her! He’s awfully rich, too, I believe. Have 
you any eligibles here for me, Pam?” 

“I—I don’t think so,” stammered Pamela, taken aback 
by this sudden thrust. “There are some nice young men 
here, but no rich ones, as far as I know.” 

“What do you mean by nice young men?” Dido de¬ 
manded. “Well-meaning boys or just nonentities? I’ve 
no use for either. Don’t look so worried, poor lamb! 

I don’t know that I’m specially anxious for eligibles 
really. It was Grannie’s word, not mine. She was al¬ 
ways talking about eligible young men. I just want to 
have a good time.” 

Pamela had an uneasy feeling that the one person in 
El-Armut best fitted to give her what she desired was 
Raoul de Marsac, but, remembering Mrs. Durrant’s warn¬ 
ing, forebore to mention his name. Dido frankly 
puzzled her. She had never met anyone in the least 
like her before; brilliant, strange, elusive as a moonbeam. 
However, she felt a very human warming towards the 
girl for her frank disparagement of Heloise Waring, 
and hoped that they might be friends later on. 

“What a pity that you and I are such different sizes,” 


TUBBY 


157 


Dido continued, deftly sorting and folding the pile of 
garments tossed on her bed. “I could have passed on 
some of these to you.” 

“I have plenty, thanks, my dear. Here, let me help 
you with those frocks.’’ 

Dido stood and looked at her, a pale yellow jumper in 
her hand. 

“Proud!” she mused. “You queer proud thing! But 
you mustn’t be proud with me, mamma! I won’t have 
it. Just to punish you, I’m going to make you take this 
thing. Grannie gave it to me, but it doesn’t suit my type 
at all.” She took out a little pale-blue Chinese coat, 
exquisitely embroidered in butterflies of every imagin¬ 
able tint. “Call it my wedding present, if you like!” 

She slipped it over Pamela’s shoulders and stood away 
to observe the effect. 

“Perfect!” she declared. “Wear that over your straight 
little white frock and dad will fall in love with you all 
over again.” 

She laughed at Pamela’s ready blush. 

“It’s lovely, Dido, child. Thank you ever so much.” 

Dido put her head on one side and regarded her 
amusedly. 

“No, Pam. Not child, please. I never was a child, 
if it comes to that. Childhood is soon killed in an Indian 
hot weather! I was more sophisticated at ten than you 
are now! Don’t look so uncomfortable. It’s much bet¬ 
ter, really. I’ve been spared a lot of awkwardnesses 
and pinpricks through knowing my way about. Tell me, 
though—I’m awfully anxious to know—have you learned 
yet how to manage dad!” 

“What do you mean exactly?” 

“Dad can be led but not driven,” pursued Dido sagely. 
“The moment you begin to drive him he jibs at once. 


iS8 


STOLEN HONEY 


It brings out the obstinate streak in his nature, but I dare 
say you’ve found that out already.” 

“No, I haven’t.” 

“You will if you come up against any of his funny 
old principles.” A queer look flickered across the girl’s 
face and was gone. '“He’s full of them, you know. And 
ideals. Caesar’s wife and all that sort of thing.” 

“And daughter,” interposed Pamela significantly. 

“And daughter!” Dido echoed, with her thrilling 
laugh. “Bless you, Mammy Pam, I’m not going to con¬ 
fide my horrid past to dad! He’d have seven fits if 
he heard some of my escapades!” 

“Would he?” said Pam uneasily. 

“And you, too, you blessed old innocent!” laughed 
Dido, completely mistress of the situation. “Here! 
Pax and chums, Pam. We shan’t tell on each other, 
shall we? We’ll make a conspiracy of silence for dad’s 
benefit!” 

“I won’t tell tales unless you do something outrageous, 
Dido!” 

“Oh, I shan’t do anything outrageous—here,” an¬ 
swered Dido airily. 

Pamela was silent. If she had said half that she 
wanted to she would have felt priggish. She did not 
know how much, if any, seriousness lay beneath the 
girl’s flippancy. She wanted her to feel that she had a 
friend in her. She was half fascinated, half-repelled 
by her airy volubility. 

Dido looked at her, half aware of her thoughts. 

“We’re going to be quite good friends, old thing,” 
she continued. “That is, if you don’t try to influence 
me, or any tosh of that sort. I foresee that I’m going 
to be awfully good for you, Pam. Probably for dad, 


TUBBY 


159 

too. I shall ginger you both up and keep you guessing, 
as the Americans say.” 

“Don’t make your riddles too hard, then,” said Pam¬ 
ela with a funny little smile. 

“We’ll see. Now tell me how you’re going to amuse 
me.” 

“Well, there’s plenty of tennis in the afternoons, for 
one thing. The Durrants have a court and there’s one 
over at the Barrage quarters. Your father said some¬ 
thing about getting a gramophone and having dancing. 
We have a piano already.” 

“Topping! But who is there to dance with?” 

Pamela ran off a string of names, ending with Mr. 
Gray and Tim Doran, who came down sometimes from 
Tahta. 

“Tim Doran?” echoed Dido, with one of her birdlike 
sideway glances. 

“Yes. He’s an old friend of mine and a dear.” Pam¬ 
ela stopped abruptly, fearing lest she might prejudice the 
girl against her by over-praise. 

“Is that the lot? They don’t sound very intriguing!” 

Pamela, an inferior actress, brought about the very 
effect she was desirous of avoiding by her belated men¬ 
tion of the dangerous name. 

“Oh, there’s M. de Marsac,” she answered, with elabo¬ 
rate carelessness. “I almost forgot him.” 

“Who is he?” Dido pounced on a name as a sparrow 
on a crumb,. 

“He’s in charge of some excavations outside El-Armut.” 

“Oh, ripping!” cried Dido. “I hope he’ll take me 
to see them some day and give me a mummy for myself! 
Have you been yet?” 

“Not yet.” 


i6o 


STOLEN HONEY 


“He’s French, I suppose.” 

“He is.” 

“Good! I can practise my French on him. I’m hot 
stuff at French, Pam. Do you speak it?” 

“Hardly at all.” Not for the first time did Pamela 
desire a better acquaintance with that beautiful tongue. 

“What sort of a man is he?” 

“Oh, just the average sort of Frenchman, I imagine,” 
Pamela returned cautiously. “Sets himself out to be 
agreeable and all that kind of thing.” 

“You’re not very good at description. What is he 
like to look at?” 

“Oh, very ordinary. He has smooth, dark hair, sallow 
skin, and a little dark moustache. He’s not a bit roman¬ 
tic-looking, Dido.” 

“Thank Heaven for that!” returned Dido tersely. 
“The thought of a romantic-looking man makes me sick!” 

Pamela had planned her little dinner-party for the day 
after Dido’s arrival. Being more or less an impromptu 
affair, it was to be quite informal. A wire to Tim Doran, 
asking him to dine and sleep, had brought a delighted 
acceptance, and the Durrants were always ready to avail 
themselves of any little festivity. 

“We can have a bigger affair next week, if you like, 
and ask everybody,” Pamela said to Langrishe. “This 
is only a sort of welcome home for Dido.” 

“You and she get on splendidly,” Langrishe said in 
a tone of relief. 

“We haven’t clashed yet,” returned Pam, smiling. 

“You won’t clash. Why should you?” 

“I don’t know. There are depths in Dido-” 

“She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” 

“Fascinating,” Pamela agreed. “I shouldn’t wonder 



TUBBY 


161 


if half the young men in El-Armut fell head over heels in 
love with her.” 

“Then I’ll send them packing,” Langrishe declared. 
“I’m not going to let my little girl marry at eighteen.” 

Pamela looked at him with amused eyes. “My dear 
old Darner, do you imagine for an instant that you could 
possibly prevent her if she wanted to?” 

“My dear young Pamela, what else is a father’s author¬ 
ity for?” 

Pamela made an inarticulate cooing noise, and patted 
the brown cheek nearest to her. “What indeed?” 

But as she looked at him tenderly, in her heart lurked 
a faint pity for his masculine blindness. 

She was ready early on the evening of the dinner-party, 
as she wanted to be downstairs when Tim Doran arrived. 
She met him in the hall as she was coming down the stairs. 

“My hat, what a peach!” he cried, at sight of her. 
“Let me look at you!” 

Pamela blushed at his frank praise. She was wearing 
the little Chinese coat over a white frock, as Dido had 
suggested, and had tied a blue embroidered ribbon to 
match round her head. 

“I’m glad you approve, Timsy,” she said. “Your 
room is at the end of the corridor, next the bathroom. 
Hurry up and dress and come down.” 

“Righto. I’m longing to see you in your new role of 
stepmother, Pam. What sort is the kid?” 

“Kid?” Pamela laughed. “Hurry down, and you’ll 
see for yourself. Darner isn’t back yet. He’s late to¬ 
night.” 

Even as she spoke, the hall-door opened behind her 
and Langrishe entered, blinking a little at the lamplight 
after the blue dusk outside. 


162 


STOLEN HONEY 


“That you, Doran? Sorry to be so late. Pam, I 
met de Marsac this afternoon an'd asked him to dinner 
to-night.” 

“Oh, Darner!” 

“Well, my dear? Isn't there enough to eat?” 

“Oh, plenty,” returned Pamela rather flatly. 
“Only-” 

“An extra man or so doesn’t matter at an informal 
affair like this,” answered Langrishe, a little curtly. 
“Tell Hassan to lay an extra place.” 

“Very well.” Pamela turned towards the dining¬ 
room feeling distinctly ruffled. 

All her nice little plans were upset. Tim was not to 
have his solitary innings after all. Her carefully ar¬ 
ranged table had to be disturbed. There would be an odd 
man at one side. For the first time she deplored Darner’s 
ready hospitality. It was really annoying od him to in¬ 
vite an extra person at the eleventh hour like this. 

She gave Hassan his directions and cast a pleased 
glance at the table decorations, flaming poinsettias float¬ 
ing in shallow, silver bowls, silver candlesticks with 
flame-coloured shades. Then her heart misgave her for 
her casual reception of Darner’s announcement. After 
all, wasn’t it her heart’s desire to please him, to make a 
home for him? Was it not essential to the home ideal 
to feel that one could invite whoever one chose to it ? 

She ran quickly upstairs, eager to make amends for 
her fancied churlishness, and knocked at the dressing- 
room door. 

Langrishe, in the act of tying his tie, only glanced 
at her as she entered. 

“What is it, Pam? People come? I’ll be down in 
a minute.” 


TUBBY 163 

Pamela fidgetted with the open case of razors on the 
dressing-table. 

“Oh, no. No one is here but Tim Doran. It’s only, 
I just wanted to say—of course, you must ask whoever 
you like, whenever you like. I didn’t mean-” 

“I know that, goose!” 

“But I was cross-” 

“Oh, no, you weren’t. Run along, Pam. Someone 
may be here.” 

Pamela went away, closing the door softly behind her, 
a lump in her throat at her curt dismissal. Darner hadn’t 
understood, hadn’t cared, hadn’t even seen her tentative 
olive branch. Oh, men were queer! 

As she went downstairs Doran’s bedroom-door opened. 
In an instant he had run down to join her. With a feel¬ 
ing as if she were readjusting her newly acquired mask, 
she turned to him with a smile. 

“You were very quick, Timsy. Will you go into the 
drawing room? I’ve just remembered something I had 
to tell Hassan. I’ll be with you in a minute.” 

She turned toward the dining-room door as he 
crossed the hall, her steps suddenly arrested on its thresh¬ 
old by a clear penetrating exclamation from the drawing¬ 
room. 

“Tubby! Your 




CHAPTED XVII 


A LITTLE DINNER BY THE NILE 

The voice was Dido’s. There was no mistaking its bell¬ 
like timbre. But what did she mean by calling Tim 
“Tubby” ? 

In a flash the memory of Major Lundy’s words on the 
terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel came back to her. “Tubby” 
had been Tim’s nick-name in the Air Force. Her brain 
worked quickly. 

“We called him Tubby because he was such a tall, thin 
chap” 

If Dido had really called Tim by his Army nickname 
it argued a previous acquaintance with him. But if so, 
why had she not admitted it to her, Pamela, at the first 
mention of his name? 

“Now that I come to think of it, she did say 'Tim 
Doran’ in rather a funny way,” thought Pamela. “Per¬ 
haps she only knew him as Tubby. But if so why didn’t 
she say so, just as Major Lundy did?” 

Slightly puzzled, she gave Hassan his final directions, 
then crossed the hall to the drawing-room. Her heart¬ 
beats quickened slightly as she pushed the docfr open and 
went in, to find the room empty. A murmur of voices 
from without drew her to the open French window. She 
moved towards it and stood there for an instant, silhouet¬ 
ted against the golden glow of light behind her. 

The night air was sweet and cool after the warmth 
of the house. Beyond the shafts of light which fell across 

164 


A LITTLE DINNER BY THE NILE 165 

the terrace the dusk at first seemed impenetrable. A 
pale blur moved towards her; a low murmur and a higher 
tinkle of words filtered through the scented air. 

“That you, Dido?” she called. 

Two figures quickly materialized. Doran’s, a splash 
of white shirt-front against the enveloping darkness, Dido, 
a golden-yellow butterfly flickering out of the gloom into 
the shaft of lamplight. 

She looked up at Pamela brightly. 

“I’ve been making friends with your Mr. Doran, Pam. 
I took him to see my favourite bit of the river—that 
curve up towards El-Armut, where you get a fascinating 
glimpse of the town with its minarets and palm-trees.” 

“You couldn’t see much in this light,” said Pamela 
bluntly. 

“Oh, yes, quite the prettiest effect of all, with the 
town lights reflected in the water like orange fireflies, 
and the outline of the minarets against the gorgeous 
blue dusk. Mr. Doran says they’ve nothing like it at 
Tahta.” 

“No?” said Pamela, indefinite uneasiness stirring within 
her. 

Dido’s manner was absolutely natural; gay, uncon¬ 
cerned, with no indication that anything which was not 
apparent ran below the surface. Yet Pamela wanted to 
see Doran’s face. He still stood in the shadow, silent. 
Even on the wings of her desire he spoke, but without 
moving forward. 

“It would be a perfect bit for a painter chap,” he said 
in quite an ordinary tone. “Do you know if that fel¬ 
low de Marsac, paints, Pam? He looks as if he might.” 

“I don’t,” she answered. “But you can ask him 
yourself later on. He’s coming to dinner to-night.” 


166 


STOLEN HONEY 


“M. de Marsac? You never told me, Pam!” cried 
Dido reproachfully. 

“I didn’t know it myself until about ten minutes- ago,” 
returned Pamela drily. 

She was puzzled and perturbed. Her own crystal- 
clear frankness seemed to be muddied by the mere suspi¬ 
cion of duplicity in the two before her. Dido she might 

not be able to read, but Tim-! Surely, if she could 

see Tim’s honest, freckled face she would know if any¬ 
thing was being hidden from her, if secret undercurrents 
had begun to flow suddenly beneath the tranquil tide of 
her life. 

A stir of arrival in the room behind her roused Pamela 
to a sense o’f her duties as hostess. She turned abruptly 
and went in to greet the Durrants and M. de Marsac, 
followed after an instant’s hesitation by Dido and Doran. 
Langrishe entered on the heels of his guests, and for a 
moment there was a little flurry of introductions as Dido 
and the newcomers were made known to each other. 

A spark of interest lit in de Marsac’s weary eyes at the 
unexpected chic of Langrishe’s debutante daughter. 

“Only eighteen!” he murmured to himself as he 
bowed over Dido’s hand. “That demoiselle was born a 
mondame of twenty-five!” 

Dido’s glance flitted over him appraisingly. 

“I hear of you, monsieur,” she said, in pretty, rippling 
French, “that you take no interest in any woman who 
is not at least two thousand years old!” 

“Who has been maligning me thus, mademoiselle?” 
asked de Marsac, in the same tongue, taking up the gaunt¬ 
let with a faintly amused smile. 

Pamela interrupted the light encounter. 

“M. de Marsac and Doran will have to draw lots as to 
which is to take you in to dinner, Dido.” 


A LITTLE DINNER BY THE NILE 167 

“I don’t want to provoke an international crisis,” the 
girl returned, with a flashing of dark eyes from one man 
to the other. “So I’ll go in with both.” 

She slipped a hand lightly through an arm of each 
and crossed the hall to the dining-room chattering 
gaily. 

Pamela, following on Durrant’s arm, wondered if her 
ears could possibly have deceived her; if she had imagined 
that astonished: “Tubby! You!” which had so startled 
her. 

In the intervals of conversation she stole questioning 
glances at Doran’s face, only to realize, with a little sigh, 
that Tim was a man now, with all a man’s self-control 
and restraint. She could read it no longer. It seemed 
to her searching eyes as if his mouth had rather a harder 
look than usual, but his soft drawl teased Mrs. Durrant 
about her wonderful babies and chaffed Langrishe over 
his beloved Barrage in a thoroughly normal manner. 
She noticed that he did not talk much to Dido, but that 
may have been because de Marsac monopolised her at¬ 
tention. 

She flushed hotly once as she encountered Mrs. Dur¬ 
rant’s half-quizzical, half-questioning glance, and shrugged 
her shoulders barely perceptibly, as if to say: “It wasn’t 
my fault.” 

The little party was most successful. Langrishe, 
always at his best as host, shone especially to-night. 
Whenever Pamela’s eyes met his she read pride and 
approbation therein. He looked from wife to daughter, 
from daughter back again to wife with a scarcely con¬ 
cealed satisfaction. 

An aspiration, fervent as a prayer, rose from Pamela’s 
heart. 

“We mustn’t disappoint him! Oh, we mustn’t!” 


168 


STOLEN HONEY 


she breathed. “I won't if I can possibly help it; but 
Dido-? What about Dido?” 

She looked at the vivid little face turned provocatively 
up to de Marsac’s, and was again conscious of the feeling 
of bafflement which the girl’s tantalizing personality 
evoked. 

“Elusive! Yes, that’s the one word for her,” she 
mused. “Nothing to get hold of. Nothing to appeal to. 
At least, if there is I haven’t found it yet. 

After dinner, before the men came in, Dido sat on the 
piano-stool playing snatches of dance-music, while the 
two older women talked. 

“My dear, what did I tell you?” murmured Mrs. 
Durrant significantly. 

“I can’t help it,” said, Pamela resignedly. “Could 
anyone, do you think, if it came to that?” 

“No! I don’t suppose they could,” Mrs. Durant 
said, with a quick glance at Dido. 

Suddenly a memory came to Pamela of two deck¬ 
chairs drawn close together, two heads which nodded and 
whispered whenever Tim Doran and she appeared. A 
prick of shame smote her at the recollection. How she 
had resented the murmured misunderstanding: and yet, 
here were she and Mrs. Durrant doing exactly the same 
thing towards poor little Dido. If Tim and Dido had 
met before there was probably some quite simple explana¬ 
tion of the girl’s silence. She flushed hotly at the thought 
of her own treacherous-seeming, yet actually innocent, 
kiss of farewell. Was it possible that matrimony changed 
one’s point of view so utterly that it had thrust her down 
to the level of those two suspicious, prying women? Was 
she so completely “one of us” that she had already 
adopted the matron’s censorious point of view? 

With some swift intangible instinct of championship 



A LITTLE DINNER BY THE NILE 169 

she rose, went over to the piano, and stood for a minute 
beside Dido. 

“Do you sing, Dido?” she asked. 

The girl looked up and shook her golden mop which, 
carefully smoothed on top, stood out in a mass of curls 
about her ears. 

“I make a joyful noise sometimes, but not in public. 
M. de Marsac sings though. He told me so at dinner. 
He's going to sing to-night. He knows several things 
without music.” 

“It took you to make that discovery, Dido,” said Pam¬ 
ela, curbing a desire to put her hand on the girl’s bright 
head. Conscious of having wronged her in her thoughts 
she was pathetically anxious to make amends. 

“I’m rather good at making discoveries,” Dido returned, 
with a little laugh. Then she flashed an impudent glance 
across at the couch where Monica Durrant sat. “I’ve 
discovered that Mrs. Durrant dislikes me, I can’t think 
why.” 

“Oh, hush, Dido. I’m sure she doesn’t,” murmured 
Pamela hastily. 

“I know she does, but it doesn’t matter in the least.” 

“Tim Doran sings a little,” Pamela said in a tone for 
general conversation. 

Dido made a face. 

“A little? That means that he can’t sing at all, of 
course. Let him howl a comic song, if he likes, but for 
Heaven’s sake don’t let him attempt to tear a passion to 
tatters!” 

There was a tang of bitterness in her tone which pierced 
through Pamela’s newly donned panoply of championship. 
Before she could answer, the door opened. 

“Thank Heaven, here are the men at last!” murmured 
Dido, playing a crashing chord. 


170 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Poor Pamela Langrishe will have trouble with that 
girl yet,” thought.Monica Durrant as she saw de Marsac 
make straight for the piano. 

“Let’s have coffee on the terrace,” suggested Langrishe. 

“M. de Marsac is going to sing to us, dad,” put in Dido. 

“He’d like his coffee first, Pm sure,” said Langrishe, 
in a tone that brooked no denial. “Take it out on the 
terrace, Hassan. Do you want a wrap, Mrs. Durrant?” 

“No, thanks, it’s a heavenly night,” murmured Mrs. 
Durrant, feeling rather than seeing Dido’s grimace. 

Under cover of the general conversation Doran drew 
his chair close to Pamela’s. 

“You won’t think me awfully rude if I go back by the 
early train in the morning?” he said quite normally. 
“It’s a beastly fag, but there’s an inspection some time 
to-morrow and I must be on the spot.” 

“Oh, Timsy, that’s too bad!” cried Pamela, with a 
prick of uneasiness, her vague suspicions returning like a 
cloud of gnats to tease and sting. Did you know this 
when first you arrived?” 

“Of course, Pam. I had no means of hearing since.” 
He turned to her in surprise. 

“I know, but-” she stopped. She could not tell 

him what she really thought, nor why such an idea should 
have had power to worry her. 

“If you have finished your coffee, M. de Marsac,” said 
Dido’s clear voice. “Do come and sing for us now.” 

“If it will give you any pleasure-” de Marsac rose, 

and threw away his cigarette. 

Dido, still smoking hers, followed him as far as the open 
French window, on whose step she sat down, leaning back 
against the green sun-shutter. 

Pamela had a swift impulse to ask: 

“What do you think of Dido, Tim?” 


A LITTLE DINNER BY THE NILE 171 


Doran’s basket-chair creaked slightly as he answered: 

‘‘She’s awfully pretty, isn’t she? So uncommon-look¬ 
ing. Not a bit like Mr. Langrishe, though. I suppose 
she takes after her mother’s people.” 

It was the utter absence of expression in Tim’s care¬ 
fully controlled tones that turned Pamela’s vague con¬ 
jectures to certainty. 

As a rule there was no hesitation about his enthusiasms. 
His soft drawl went up and down to the pendulum-swing 
of his feelings. No genuine encomium, such as his upon 
"Dido, would have left his tone so unstirred, had there been 
nothing hidden behind it. 

Softly out on the air stole the chords of a prelude, fol¬ 
lowed by a light tenor voice with an undeniable thrill in 
its upper notes. 

At the first phrase Dido made a little restless movement, 
than nestled back against the sun-shutter in a more con¬ 
tented attitude. Her cigarette fell fr'om her loosely- 
clasping fingers and lay forgotten on the ground, a red 
spark sending up a blue filmy spiral of smoke. 

“Mountebank!” muttered Doran in a fierce under¬ 
tone, getting up abruptly and leaning over the parapet, 
while the ringing tones of de Marsac’s voice throbbed to 
silence on the darkness. 

“My poor old Timsy, is it jealous you are?” thought 
Pamela, her heart yearning over him in wordless sym¬ 
pathy. 

When the applause had died away, Dido’s command 
rang clearly out: 

“More, please.” 

De Marsac came to the French window and looked 
down at her. 

“We mustn’t bore the others.” 

“What do they matter? I want another song.” 


IJ2 


STOLEN HONEY 


“My poor singing pleases you, then?” 

It was well for Pamela’s peace of mind that she did 
not hear the silky caress in de Marsac’s voice. 

Dido opened her great eyes full on him. 

“Your poor singing pleases me very much.” 

“I sang to you alone.” 

“I knew. Sing again.” 

“One more, then. Your eyes hold the night in their 
depths, p’tite mademoiselle” 

“Do they?” Dido laughed- “Are those the com¬ 
pliments you pay to your Egyptian queens, m’sieu?” 

De Marsac turned abruptly and went back into the 
drawing-room. This girl, with the golden hair of a child, 
had the eyes of a sorceress. The contrast was sufficiently 
piquante to be disturbing. 

When his second song was finished he strolled to the 
window again to find that Dido had vanished. A touch 
of discomfiture pricked him until a voice from the shadows 
said softly: 

“Come to the other end of the terrace and I will show 
you my favourite view of the river.” 

De Marsac paused to light a cigarette as he answered. 

“Already? You have a favourite view already, 
mademoiselle ?” 

“I know at once what I like and dislike,” Dido answered. 

“And whom?” queried de Marsac, softly. 

“And whom,” Dido echoed, with a curious inflection 
in her clear tones. 

Pamela felt grateful to Mrs. Durrant for making a 
move almost immediately after she had seen the two 
figures wander to the far end of the terrace. She cast a 
glance at Doran, but his back was towards the retreating 
forms, and he was deep in a discussion with Jim Durrant 
about to-morrow’s inspection. 


A LITTLE DINNER BY THE NILE 173 


“I am sorry to break up the party,” Monica Durrant 
said. “You have given us a most delightful evening. 
I really think I’ll have to caff you Pamela after this.” 

“I wish you would,” answered Pamela gratefully. 
“It seems so queer to have everyone calling me Mrs. 
Langrishe except my own people.” 

“And Mr. Doran,” Mrs. Durrant reminded her. 

“Ah, but he’s almost one of my own,” said Pamela, 
looking affectionately at the tall, reedy figure. 

“Who is?” asked Dido, coming back reluctantly to 
the group, protesting that this was the best time of the 
day and that it was a sin to go to bed now. 

“Tim Doran,” answered Pamela quietly. 

Doran, turning to meet her steady eyes, knew grate¬ 
fully that here, at least, was a friend who would never 
fail him. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


OF WILD OATS 

Doran had gone next morning by the time Dido appeared. 
She looked quickly at his empty place as she kissed her 
father. 

“I shan’t kiss you Pam,” she announced airily. 
“Women’s kisses are a mockery and a delusion, so let’s 
be honest and omit them.” Then she asked casually, 
“Where’s Tubby? Has he gone already?” 

“You mean Doran?” said Langrishe. He went about 
ten minutes ago. He had to catch the early train.” 

“Why do you call him Tubby?” asked Pamela, in a 
voice which she tried to keep calm and non-committal. 
Dido glanced under her eyelashes at her. 

“He told me last night that it was his Army nickname. 
I love it, don’t you, Dad? It’s so deliciously inappro¬ 
priate.” 

“You seem to have made friends with him very quickly, 
little girl,” laughed Langrishe. 

“Some people are easy to make friends with,” Dido’s 
tone was slighting in its carelessness. 

“Too easy, perhaps,” said Pamela, rather tremulously, 
in spite of her effort at self-control. 

“Why, Pam, you’re not jealous, are you?” 

“Don’t be absurd, Dido,” cried Pamela sharply. 

Dido laughed. 

“My little Mammy Pam is ratty this morning! Dinner¬ 
parties don’t agree with you, I’m afraid.” 

With an effort Pamela recovered her temper. 
i74 


OF WILD OATS 


175 


“They’re rather trying when you’re not used to them.” 

“I thought last night went off splendidly,” put in Lan- 
grishe. 

“Oh, did you, Damer? I thought the evening would 
never end!” 

“That was because you were a young and anxious 
hostess, my dear. You’ll soon get used to it.” 

“I thought you were a ripping hostess, Pam,” said Dido 
quickly. “There were no signs of the novice about last 
night’s party.” 

“Do you really think so?” said Pamela, pleased in 
spite of herself at the girl’s approval. “I’m glad it went 
off so well.” 

“M. de Marsac wants us to go out to his camp some 
afternoon, Dad. Couldn’t you take a day off and come 
too?” 

“Perhaps I could. We’ll see. Don’t wait lunch to¬ 
day, Pam. I may be late.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t work so hard, Damer.” 

Langrishe laughed. 

“Work? There’s nothing like work and plenty of 
it.” He rose. “Good-bye, little girls. Be good while 
I’m away.” 

“We’re always that,” smiled Dido saucily. 

Pamela, thinking that the girl was quite at her best 
with her father, rose too, and moved to the door after 
Langrishe. 

“I’m coming to see you off, Damer.” 

“Good.” He slipped his arm round her when they 
got into the hall. 

She nerved herself for a word of warning. 

“Damer, do you think it will be wise to let Dido see 
much of M. de Marsac?” she asked tentatively. 

Langrishe stiffened. 


176 


STOLEN HONEY 


<f Why not?” 

“Mrs, Durrant says that—that he’s not a marrying 
man!” 

“The deuce she does! But what has that to say to 
it? We don’t want Dido to marry him, do we?” 

“Oh, no.” 

“Or anyone else either,” said Langrishe firmly. “Bless 
you dear women, your heads are always full of love and 
match-making! Can’t you let it alone, and just let the 
child enjoy herself! Cut out this match-making non¬ 
sense.” 

“Oh, I have no desire to-” 

“Come, Pam, give me a kiss. I must be off.” He 
turned up her face to his. 

“I seem to see nothing of you now,” she said wistfully. 
But Langrishe was impatient to get to his work. It 
was not the moment for the assurance which would have 
assuaged her vague hurt. 

“That’s better than seeing too much of me, isn’t it, 
sweetheart?” he said, as he kissed her. 

When he had gone Pamela went back to the dining¬ 
room. 

“I want you to tell me something, Dido,” she said, 
going straight to the point while her courage lasted. 

Dido looked up, a spoonful of marmalade poised over 
her plate. The sun struck amber and orange lights from 
it as it dripped slowly on to her toast. 

“What is it ?” she asked carelessly. 

“Did you ever meet Tim Doran before last night?” 
There was an instant’s silence before Dido countered: 
“What on earth put such an idea into your head ?” 

“Never mind. It’s there. Did you?” 

Dido met Pamela’s qpestioning blue eyes with a 
haughty, unflinching stare. 



OF WILD OATS 


177 


“I can’t see that the fact of your having married my 
father gives you the right to cross-question me like this,” 
she said in a tone that cut. 

“I think it does. In any case, I can’t see what objec¬ 
tion you could possibly have to answering a simple ques¬ 
tion like that.” 

“No?” The monosyllable flicked insolently. 

“No,” answered Pamela quietly. “You either met 
Tim Doran before or you didn’t. If you did, why make 
a mystery about it? If you didn’t why not say so and 
be done with it?” 

“Why not, indeed?” echoed Dido, with a sudden change 
of key. “Very well, then, Mammy Pam, I did meet your 
dear Tim Doran before, only as I had known him either 
as Stuart or Tubby I didn’t connect him with your Tim.” 

“Why didn’t you tell us that last night? Surely it 
was rather a pleasant and not at all uncommon coinci¬ 
dence?” pursued Pamela, only half satisfied. 

“It would have meant a lot of explanation, and I wasn’t 
in the humour for explanations last night.” 

“Weren’t you? Why?” 

“You’re a horrid old inquisitor, Pam, but I suppose 
I’d better make a clean breast to you.” 

“You had.” 

“Well, then. I met Tubby under the rose, as it were. 
At an artist friend’s studio where I used to go sometimes. 
The Grands knew nothing about it. There was no harm 
in it, really. We used to have lovely rags, but—I don’t 
fancy dad would approve.” 

• She cast a quick glance at Pamela to see how she took 
the confession. 

“I don’t suppose he would,” said Pamela slowly. 
There was not much in the affair, after all, once the triv¬ 
ial heart of the mystery had been exposed. 


i 7 8 


STOLEN HONEY 


“It’s all over and done with now,” the girl went on 
eagerly. “That’s why I made Tubby promise last night 
to say nothing about it. There’s no use in worrying dad 
with my little wild oats, is there?” 

“Not a bit,” Pamela agreed. 

“I thought that you’d see eye to eye with me, old thing,” 
cried Dido, in a tone of relief, which told her listener 
plainly that she had expected no such thing. “We’ll still 
keep our conspiracy of silence, sha’n’t we? Dad is a 
perfect dear, but he might not approve of my having had 
acquaintances of whom the Grands knew nothing.” 

“He might not, indeed. I won’t say anything to him 
about it. But you won’t go on doing that sort of thing, 
Dido?” 

“Dear old fuss-pot! Of course I won’t. I’ve sown 
my wild oats. I’m going to settle down now.” 

Faint misgivings still shook Pamela. Was there more 
than met the eye in this simple-seeming confession? 
Wild oats? The phrase had an elastic, a disturbing 
sequence of meanings. The vague fear that had haunted 
her last evening, suddenly took form and shape. 

“Dido!” she cried uneasily. “Was there anything 
more than just fun between you and Tim Doran?” 

But Dido was tired of being questioned. She rose, 
tossing her napkin on the chair next her. 

“My dear Pam,” she returned, in a tone of finality. 
“When boys and girls get together there are generally, 
well—passages! This subject is now closed for discus¬ 
sion. So are any—passages—which might have taken 
place between Tubby Doran and me. Now let’s arrange 
what day we are going out to see M. de Mar sac’s exca¬ 
vations.” 

“It will all depend on what day your father can come,” 
answered Pamela, rather flatly. 


OF WILD OATS 


179 


“I don't see that we need let it depend on that. If he 
can come, well and good. If he can’t—surely you are 
chaperon enough to please even his dear old-fashioned 
heart ?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“The chaperon is really as extinct as the great auk,” 
Dido went on. “I am giving in to these absurdities 
just at first in order to let him down gently, and because 
Egypt isn’t .exactly England. My old recollections of the 
East tell me that.” 

“I am glad they do. It saves me a lot of trouble,” 
said Pamela, smiling. Then another mean little suspicion 
poked up its ugly head, ruffling her new found ease of 
mind. 

Why was it that Tim had never mentioned having met 
Dido to her ? He had always appeared quite unconscious 
at the mention of her name. Was he a consummate actor, 
or had that conspiracy of silence of which Dido 
spoke so glibly widened its scope to admit of muffling 
her as well as Darner? What was the meaning of it 
all? 

She felt that she must know. To be able to trust those 
about her was essential to her. Once she found she could 
do that doubts would never find a place in her loyal heart. 

She laid a detaining hand on Dido’s arm as she was 
going out of the room. 

“One moment, Dido. Forgive me for harking back 
to the subject again, but there’s just one thing more that 
I must ask you.” 

“Oh, Mammy Pam, you are a bore!” the girl cried 
impatiently. “Ask and be done with it, and then let us 
bury the bones of the wretched skeleton of my past once 
for all!” 

“It’s only this. Why -was it that Tim never told me 


* 


i8o 


STOLEN HONEY 


he knew you ? Your name was certainly mentioned before 
him. Did you write and tell him not to?” 

“I’ve never written to him since-” Dido stopped 

abruptly and bit her lip. Then she reddened slowly, a 
burning red that spread all over her white little face and 
neck. “The fact is,” she blurted out, with a hard light¬ 
ness, “he didn’t know my name.” 

“Didn’t know your name?” echoed Pamela, astounded. 

“No. We all had nicknames at Binkey’s. He was 
Tubby. I was Curly. Rose herself was Binkey, and 
there were Cobs and Doodle and Jackdaw. I don’t 
believe he ever heard my real name until last night. Now, 
Pam, that’s all. The subject is taboo from this day 
forth. Pm sick of it. I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m 
going to forget all that silly rot. We all have something 
we want to forget. Even you!” 

She looked up with an elfin malice at Pamela’s per¬ 
turbed face. 

“Have I? I don’t know what it is.” 

“I do.” Dido laughed. “Shall I tell you?” 

“If you like.” 

The girl hesitated for a moment, a tangle of complex 
emotions seething through her. Was it worth while 
hurting Pam or was it not? She had dealt her, Dido, 
some shrewder thrusts than she knew in the morning’s 
unexpected encounter. She liked her: yes, and she had 
a certain respect for her, too, mingled with her contempt 
for her lack of sophistication. But one unconscious 
shaft still hung and rankled. Yes, she must deal her 
pointed thrust in return. 

“The thing of all others that you wish to forget is that 
your marriage to Dad was only a marriage of con¬ 
venience,” she said, with sideways tilted head. “Aren’t 
I right?” 


OF WILD OATS 


181 


If it were any satisfaction to her she had got her step¬ 
mother fair between the joints of her armour. 

Pamela gasped as if the girl had struck her in the face, 
whitened, then reddened, as painfully as Dido herself had 
done a moment earlier. 

“You—you needn’t have said that,” she breathed 
almost inaudibly, then turned and walked across the hall 
with slowly dragging gait and eyes that saw nothing. 

Dido stood still for an instant, biting her lip in vexation. 
Then she ran after Pamela and thrust her arm through 
hers. 

“Pam, forgive me! I’m an odious little beast I 
shouldn’t have said that. It was rotten of me.” 

“It was quite true,” murmured Pamela tonelessly. “I 
do try to forget it night and day. But—how did you 
know?” 

The girl moved restlessly. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I have intuitions, I suppose. 
But, Pam, even I wouldn’t have been beast enough to say 
it if—if it were true now?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that it’s patent to the blindest idiot that you 
and dad are absolutely cut out for each other, that you 
care most frightfully for each other-” 

“Oh, gracious, do I wear my heart on my sleeve like 
that?” cried Pamela, with a half-hysterical laugh. “And 
Darner, too? I didn’t think we were quite so-” 

“But you are, just as bad if not worse,” said Dido, 
incoherent in her zeal for consolation. She felt that in 
her pique, she might have gone a little too far. She had 
no desire to antagonize Pamela. 

But Pamela was not vindictive. She gave herself a 
mental shake and voiced her thought aloud. 

“After all one could never be afraid of the truth,” she 



182 


STOLEN HONEY 


said as if to herself. “If only we are true we have noth¬ 
ing to fear.” 

Dido glanced quickly at her to see if there were any 
personal application in her words, but Pamela’s clear gaze 
held no mental reservation. 

“What you said was quite true,” she repeated, turning 
to face the girl. “I oughtn’t to have minded it as I did, 
especially as—as God has been good enough to turn our 
marriage into something wonderfully different. I am a 
fortunate woman. A very fortunate woman.” 

“Except for your stepdaughter,” murmured Dido irre¬ 
pressibly. 

Pamela’s face irradiated in a smile. 

“Ah, then, Dido,” she said in her softest brogue, “maybe 
my stepdaughter isn’t so bad, after all!” 

Dido caught her breath; then put up one small hand 
and patted Pamela’s cheek. 

“On my soul, I believe it’s Dad who is the lucky one,” 
she exclaimed, with what seemed to Pamela quite un¬ 
necessary fervour. 


CHAPTER XIX 


OLD GODS AND NEW GODDESSES 

After all, the excursion to de Marsac’s excavation was 
made with Langrishe’s escort. He took an afternoon off 
at Pamela’s special request. 

A merry cavalcade, consisting of th'ree donkeys, jingling 
with brass chains and gay with scarlet trappings, en¬ 
couraged by the s'houts and slappings of their scantily 
blue-clad donkey-boys, cantered through the streets of 
El-Armut early one December‘afternoon. 

Dido, though not as openly enthusiastic as Pamela’s 
enjoyed to the full the colour and movement of the town. 
The east, to her, was reminiscent rather than novel. It 
was like coming home after years of absence, in spite 
of the many differences between India and Egypt. She 
did not realize how much she had wanted it until now 
that she was back again. 

Secretly, the scents, the sights, the sounds excited her. 
She loved the high houses in the winding streets, so tall 
that they showed but a strip of vivid blue sky between 
their softly-tinted fronts of blue, pink or cream banded 
with red; houses shuttered and balconied in carved green 
or brown wood; secret-looking houses that closely guarded 
whatever mysteries they held. 

They clattered through the twisting, narrow streets, 
passing dark little shops whose open fronts displayed 
their wares; slabs of crudely-tinted calico, shelves of red 
tarbushes, booths of native pottery, water-jars, jugs and 
183 


184 


STOLEN HONEY 


bowls in cool tones of grey and green and cream. Then 
they sauntered through the vegetable bazaar, with its 
stalls full of oranges and tomatoes, strings of dried green 
pods, bowls of yellow millet and maize, platters of flat, 
green dhurra-cakes, little green onions or sticky sweet¬ 
meats, brown, white and pink, from which the vendor 
perpetually scattered the clustering flies, with a gay, 
bead-handled fly-switch. 

“I think I’d like some of that stuff, Dad,” exclaimed 
Dido as they rode past. 

“I don’t think you would at all,” replied Darner. 
“Fuller’s chocolates are more in your line.” 

The sweet-seller, noting their interest, came forward 
with a brownish square in his dark fingers, hastily 
plucked from the stall, offering it to Dido. 

“Nice. Veree nice,” he said enticingly. 

Dido shook her head, with a smile, as they threaded 
their way through the varied throng: the boys with flat 
baskets of oranges on their heads; quail-sellers with net- 
bags, full of little, brown-speckled birds; blue-robed, bold¬ 
eyed peasant women with red cloths full of eggs of half- 
fledged pigeons; men with little wooden spindles in their 
hands, spinning white or brown wool as they went; camels 
bearing great sheaves of purple-shafted sugar-cane; 
snowy-turbaned sheikhs riding meek, grey donkeys. 

They drew out of the bazaars to a quieter street 
bordered with acacias, where they passed Arab students 
soberly suited in kuftdns of blue or fawn silk over white 
under-robes, talking to each other with grave gestures, 
evidently comparing notes on their studies as they walked. 

The way led onwards through a palm-grove, from 
which a flock of pigeons rose as they entered, with a 
flurry of silver and gold-brown wings and a flash of 
pearly breasts as they turned in the sunlight. 


OLD GODS AND NEW GODDESSES 185 

“I’d like to live in a palm-grove,” declared Dido, looking 
like a white elf, her father fondly thought, as he answered: 

“You’d soon get tired of it, little girl.” 

She shook her head. 

“I don’t think so.” 

Three is a proverbially awkward number for an excur¬ 
sion. Two keep each other company while one has 
inevitably to ride alone. For the first part of the way 
Pamela found herself the solitary, but as they cantered 
out of the palm-grove’s shade into a dusty road which 
lay bare and blinding to the sun, Langrishe pressed 
forward to join her. 

She looked round with a smile of pleasure. 

“This is indeed a land of sudden contrasts,” Pamela 
said. “I’m enjoying every minute of it, Darner.” 

“That’s good. We’ve come through life to death now,” 
returned Langrishe pointing with his stick to where the 
road wound forlornly through a deserted burial-ground. 

Broken mud-brfck tombs crumbled apart on raised 
mounds. Through the light brown rubble bones pro¬ 
truded whitely; here a gleaming skull, there a thigh¬ 
bone, farther on the pale curve of a rib. 

Yellow Pariah dogs prowled through this desolate place 
of the forgotten dead, snarling viciously from behind the 
tumbled heaps. 

Ali, Pamela’s donkey-boy, picked up a clod and flung 
it at one, bolder than the rest, who sprang towards them, 
baring vicious teeth. It yelped before it was touched 
and slunk snarling back to safety. 

“They’re cowardly savages,” said Langrishe. “The 
Arabs say: 'He is like a dog on the mound,’ of any¬ 
one who has fallen very low. Isn’t that so, Ali ?” 

Already, Langrishe had picked up a good deal of Arabic. 
He had the useful “knack,” as he called it himself, of 


186 


STOLEN HONEY 


acquiring languages easily. Ali bared teeth as white as 
the dog’s in answer. 

Dido pressed forward. 

“This is a cheery spot!” she exclaimed. “Have we 
much farther to go?” 

Langrishe pointed to a palm-girt mud village beyond 
which the desert stretched, tawny and wrinkled as a lion’s 
skin, to the foot of the Libyan Hills. 

“About two miles more, my donkey-boy, Ibrahim, 
tells me. By gad, I’ll be glad of a long drink after this.” 
Langrishe mopped his forehead. 

“You’re not hot, Dad, are you? I’m simply soaking 
in this delicious sunshine as a sponge soaks up water,” 
cried Dido. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I never 
really lived in England. I am going to live now, though,” 
she added in a tone compact of satisfaction, determination, 
and excited anticipation. “So that’s that!” 

“Is it, indeed?” said Langrishe, with his amused smile. 
“And what about you, Pam, my dear?” 

“I’m enjoying every minute of it,” she repeated. 

Nevertheless, no one was really regretful when de 
Marsac’s camp came in sight—a cluster of cream tents 
against the biscuit-coloured lower hill-slopes. 

De Marsac himself, slim and dark in immaculate 
white, came forward across the sand to meet them. He 
dismounted Dido as Langrishe helped Pamela to alight. 

“A white butterfly,” he murmured at the girl’s airy- 
light movement. 

Dido frowned until her eyebrows nearly met over her 
great brown eyes, giving her an odd resemblance to her 
father. 

“M. de Marsac, do you know any American?” 

“American?” he echoed, amused and puzzled. 


OLD GODS AND NEW GODDESSES 187 

“Compliments cut no ice with me, as they say in the 
States,” she returned curtly. 

“But, mademoiselle-” 

“But, monsieur,” she protested, tapping her donkey- 
switch impatiently against her little white shoe . “If you 
and I are to be friends, please remember that I have no 
use for that sort of piffle.” 

“Piffle?” murmured de Marsac. “Is that American, 
too ?” 

“No, it's good—or rather bad—English,” said Dido, 
laughing suddenly. 

“Why not speak the French that you so—but your 
voice truly sounds like music in my tongue, mademoiselle. 
It is no compliment, I assure you!” de Marsac protested. 

“No?” 

“Vraiment non.” He turned to talk to his other guests. 

“You can enjoy as much soltitude as you like here, de 
Marsac,” Langrishe said, looking round at the camp with 
its handful of tents, so insignificant an item against the 
great fawn and umber slopes that rose behind it. 

Far away stretched the Nile valley—a blur of green 
in every tone, from the darkness of date-palms to the 
grey of olives, El-Armut clustered on its verge, a faintly- 
tinted huddle of houses topped by bubble-like domes and 
dominated by the delicate towers of innumerable mina¬ 
rets. Between camp and town stretched the beginning 
of the desert, a sweep of tawny sand with lavender hollows 
and purple-grey shadows. 

Dido caught her breath as she looked. 

“I want to lie naked in that sand and feel the sun beat 
on my bare body,” she thought, with a fierceness of desire 
that astonished even her unconventional, egoistic self. 
She cast a glance across at de Marsac, who was talking 


188 


STOLEN HONEY 


to her father. “I wonder if he’d understand, or is he 
too blase, too sophisticated?” 

“I get my fill of solitude sometimes,” the Frenchman 
was saying. “Not during the day. Then I am busy. 
I have enough to do to occupy brain and body. But when 

night falls and one can work no more-” He made 

an expressive gesture which at once unlocked the fount 
of Langrishe’s hospitality. 

“You must come in to us whenever you feel inclined. 
Don’t wait for an invitation. We could have a rubber 
of bridge, or a little music. Marshall often drops in, and 
young Welland. Do come.” 

“May I really ?” He glanced towards Pamela. 

“Of course,” she said at once, flushing a little. “We 
shall be charmed to see you.” 

“You do not realize how kind you are to give such an 
invitation, madame,” de Marsac said, with a flash of 
gratitude which went straight to Pamela’s warm heart 
“It is often lonely here.” 

“Indeed it must be. You will be sure to come?” 

Dido listened for his answer. 

“Does the thirsting man refuse a draught of cool well 
water?” he asked. 

The girl stirred restlessly. The language of compliment 
again. Was there anything real under the fine, conven¬ 
tional polish? The other night she thought that there 
might have been. To-day—she turned away sharply to 
find him at her side. 

“Would it please you if I came?” he asked, in a tone 
for her ear alone. 

Sure of his interest at least, she took an impish delight 
in thwarting him. 

She cast down her eyes and spoke in a school-girl 
fashion. 


OLD GODS AND NEW GODDESSES 189 

“What pleases my parents must surely please me,” 
she said, with mock demureness. 

He turned abruptly. She hoped that she heard the 
roll and hiss of a stifled “Sacr-r-re 1” as he left her. 

A tall Arab in a peach-coloured kuftdn brought a tray 
of cool drinks. 

“Would you rather sit in the tent or out here?” de 
Marsac asked. “When you are sufficiently rested I will 
show you the excavations, if you care to see them, and 
then we shall have tea.” 

“In the tent,” said Pamela, whose head ached a little 
from the glare of the sun. 

“Out here,” said Dido at the same moment. 

De Marsac smiled. 

“Perhaps you will do both. See, the front of my 
dining-tent is looped back. Mrs. Langrishe will sit in¬ 
side in the shade, while you, mademoiselle, can stay out 
here on a rug.” 

“No rug for me,” Dido declared. “I want to sit on the 
sand; the hot, stinging sand.” 

De Marsac led the way to his square open tent, lined 
inside with Bedouin tenting; gods and goddesses in bril¬ 
liant red, blue, green and black boldly applique on a cream 
background. 

For furniture it had a rough, square table, a cane 
lounge-chair, a baize-topped folding table, a couple of 
wooden chairs and some boxes; a regular working-place; 
no sybaritic retreat such as Dido had vaguely visioned. 

Pamela sank into the lounge chair, with its blue cotton- 
covered cushions, with a sense of relief. 

It was pleasant to rest there in the shade and sip her 
cool drink, and feel that she need not talk or entertain 
anyone for the moment. She had had to readjust her 
whole conception of her relations with Dido, and her 


190 


STOLEN HONEY 


feelings towards the girl were still unsettled. She liked 
her even while she condemned her; she wanted to win her, 
though she was, as yet, wary of making advances; but 
above and beneath and throughout all her chaotic sen¬ 
sations was the uneasy certainty that Dido was the girl 
who had hurt Tim Doran so badly. For that, she had 
the unacknowledged feeling that it might be no harm at all 
if M. de Marsac gave her a lesson. To be hoist with 
her own petard might be a very salutary experience for 
Miss Dido Langrishe. 

Pamela looked at her now as she sat in the sun outside 
the tent, holding out little hands whose whiteness its 
fiercest rays had no power to brown. She had flung 
aside her Panama hat, with its yellow ribbon, and her hair 
stood out about her queer, vivid little face like a nimbus 
of coppery gold. Her amber-striped linen frock was the 
last word in smartness.. She seemed all compact of 
white and gold. 

“Dido, you’ll get sunstfoke,” Pamela called out in 
warning. 

“Not I. The sun is Re, my great lover. He won’t 
harm me.” She shook her head, and burying her hands 
in the sand, poured shining streams of it as in libation to 
the mighty Sun-god. 

“Re is sometimes fierce in his caresses, mademoiselle,” 
said de Marsac, who had settled himself on the sand near 
the opening of the tent, against whose pole he leaned. 

“I don’t mind that,” Dido murmured. 

“No?” queried de Marsac. Then he spoke as if on an 
irresistible impulse. “Mademoiselle, when first we met 
I thought you mondaine. Now-” 

Dido turned over on the sand, propped her chin on her 
hands and regarded him with interest. 

“Now?” she questioned suggestively. 


OLD GODS AND NEW GODDESSES 191 

“Now I begin to think you are-” he hesitated. 

Dido caught him up with a strange little smile. “Bar¬ 
barian? Is that it, monsieur?” 

“Perhaps. No. I don’t know.” 

“Primitive, then?” She half buried one hand in the 
sand. 

“Ah, yes, perhaps. Primitive.” With a sudden rough 
gesture he put his hand hard over the one which lay so 
temptingly near him. 

Flushing suddenly, Dido pulled it away and sprang to 
her feet. 

“No!” she whispered, breathing hard as if she had 
been running. “No. No. No!” 

He rose, too. For a moment the tent-flap hid them 
from the two within. He looked at her with nostrils 
dilated to a sudden whiteness. “Mademoiselle,” .he 
murmured with a fierceness that matched her own. “I 
do not think that it will ever be possible for you and me 
to be friends.” 

“No?” queried Dido, with her bell-like laugh; a 
difficult effort. 

“Mon dieu, non!” 

He turned abruptly and went into the tent, the echo 
of that elfin laughter still ringing in his ears. He could 
not know that her heart was leaping madly, and that a 
murmured “Thank God!” followed his emphatic denial. 

A move was made to see the explorations. 

The excavation had not gone very far as yet. A flight 
of steps leading to a pillared pavement was all that had 
been uncovered so far. De Marsac thought that it had 
belonged to a temple which had been badly damaged by 
an earthquake before the inexorable desert sand had 
hidden it for twenty centuries. 

Langrishe and Pamela examined it all with interest, 


192 


STOLEN HONEY 


but to Dido the stones and steps were meaningless, jf not 
boring, after the passionate little interlude, so startling 
in its unexpectedness. 

Her heart still pounded. She wondered what de Marsac 
was feeling as he explained the details of the excavation 
in his careful English, as he fingered his clipped mous¬ 
tache, or gave directions to the Arabs. Every gesture, 
every look of his seemed to have assumed a sudden 
significance for Dido. It was as if this—this—she could 
not put it into words, but as if this—something—were 
the secret meaning which Egypt had for her. 

But she was not going to give in to it tamely. She 
would not flutter like a caged bird. She would fight it. 
It should prove that it was stronger than she. It must 
master her inevitably before she surrendered to its power. 

What had happened to her that a mere flirtation, lightly 
embarked on, lightly regarded, should have turned all at 
once into this wild elemental feeling? She did not know. 

As for de Marsac, the primitive instinct of the hunter 
had arisen at Dido's first touch of resistance. He had 
thought that it might be pleasant to have a little affair 
with the demoiselle so piquante in her contrast of youth 
and sophistication. She knew the game, too, he had 
reflected with satisfaction. She could play with fire as 
well as he. There was no fear that either would get 
their fingers burned. And now, lo, a shaft of flame stood 
between them; real flame, scorching, searing flame that 
might shrivel them in its fire! On the other side stood 
Dido, elusive, tantalizing, small and fine as a fairy, skilled 
as a witch in her lures. Almost he felt if he must risk the 
flame to get her; almost, but not quite, as yet. 

Meanwhile he set himself out to win the good graces 
of the father and belle-mere. He much preferred the 
French phrase to the cold English expression. So well 


OLD GODS AND NEW GODDESSES 193 

did he succeed that Pamela, for the moment, forgot Mrs. 
Durrant's warning, forget her own desire for the chasten¬ 
ing of Dido in the charm of de Marsac’s personality. 

He made her pour out tea for them all, and when she 
and Langrishe were once more safely ensconced within 
the tent he took out a dish of rough native pottery filled 
with little loose-skinned oranges to Dido on the sand 
outside. 

“You like these ?” he said tentatively. 

She looked up. 

“I adore them. But how did you know ?” 

“Already I know some of your likes and dislikes,” 
he laughed softly. “It is the primitif in me which re¬ 
sponds-” 

“You are not primitive,” she interrupted quickly. 
“You are the last word in modernity, you and your 
civilization!” 

“Civilization is a mere veneer, mademoiselle. The 
layer may be thick or thin according to temperament and 
circumstance, but believe me, it is purely superficial.” 
“Is it?” 

“Truly. Primitive man does not dwell very far below 
the surface. He is always ready to leap out at the touch 
of the elemental.” 

“What do you mean by the elemental?” 

“Any of the great forces of life, hunger, self-preserva¬ 
tion, love.” 

“I like the order you put them in,” said Dido, with a 
little scornful laugh. 

“Is it not written in the Scriptures, mademoiselle, that 
the first shall be last and the last first—in certain cir¬ 
cumstances ?” 

Dido, the quick-tongued, the ready-witted, was silenced 
for once. She stripped the loose skin from the little 


194 


STOLEN HONEY 


Yussuf Effendi orange and threw it on the sand, where 
it lay like an upturned cup of fire. 

De Marsac watched her, also in silence. Somehow 
he felt that he had scored in this swift, secret battle which 
had arisen between them. 

He went back to the others, well content to let primi¬ 
tive man be hidden once more beneath the social veneer. 

At parting, Langrishe reminded him of his invitation. 

‘‘I meant it, de Marsac/’ he assured him hospitably. 
“It was no fag on de parler, as you’d say yourself.” 

“I know. It will give me great pleasure.” He broke 
off to go and mount Dido, but she had sprung to her saddle 
without his help by the time he had reached her donkey’s 
side. 

He put his hand on the rein and looked full at her. 

“Am I to come, mademoiselle ?” 

“What is it to me, monsieur?” 

“That is not polite, mademoiselle.” 

“Surely you don’t expect me to pay you compliments, 
M. de Marsac?” Dido looked away from him as she 
gathered up her reins in her white-gloved hand. 

“When I do you will pay them. Of that rest assured, 
mademoiselle,” he said lightly. 

She shot a glance of unutterable fury at him. 

“Oh!” she breathed. Words once more failed her. 

She switched her donkey’s grey, clipped flank and rode 
off, feeling angry with him, with herself, with her whole 
world. Underneath her rage was the unpleasant and, to 
Dido, wholly novel sensation of extreme youth and in¬ 
experience. For the first time in her short life, she had 
met her match. 

She galloped on well ahead of the others, who followed 
in more sober fashion. 


OLD GODS AND NEW GODDESSES 195 


De Marsac, bare-headed, watched them go, a little 
pleased smile on his lips. 

“She runs away,” he murmured to himself. “Eh bien, 
it is for me to follow—at my leisure!” 

In the zest of the encounter he, too, had forgotten how 
young she was. 

Remembering it now, his dark brows drew together in 
a frown, and his lips, losing their laughter, tightened 
again to their old wariness. 

“A thousand pities that she is not married,” he mused. 
“It complicates matters to have her jeune hlle/* 


CHAPTER XX 


DIDO PLAYS FAIR 

On the return to El-Armut it was Pamela and Langrishe 
who jogged along side by side, each well content with the 
other, while Dido cantered far ahead, spurred by this new, 
troubling emotion which had so suddenly seized her. 

Talk was desultory; little, happy fragments punctuated 
by satisfied silences. 

“I think you were a bit prejudiced against de Mar sac/ 5 
said Langrishe at last. 

“Fm afraid I was. I’m not now, though. He really 
is charming. Did you see that snapshot of the picnic 
at Fontainebleau he showed me? I thought his sister 
had quite a look of Kitty. Not really like, you know, but 
just a look.” 

“Probably. Likenesses are queer things. Look here, 
Pam.” He turned to her suddenly. “I won’t have any 
more talk about Dido’s marrying. She’s far too young 
to think of such a thing yet. I want her to have a good 
time, and to see something of men and the world before 
she chooses. There’s time enough yet. I won’t have 
ideas put into her head.” 

Pamela smiled. 

“Do you really think that anyone ever puts ideas about 
love and marriage into a girl’s head. She’s born with 
them, dear man.” 

“Is she? Well, no need to foster them, then.” 

“After all, it’s the most important thing that can 
happen to a woman,” Pamela went on. 

196 


DIDO PLAYS FAIR 


197 


“Is it? Well, perhaps it is.” 

“Indeed it is. It means her whole life. Damer-” 

She hesitated, and then went on. “Have you ever thought 
of the awful risks you and I took?” 

“Were they awful? It didn’t seem to me as if I were 
risking much in asking you to marry me.” 

“Didn’t it?” Pamela blushed brightly, and shot him 
a grateful glance. “But you were, all the same. So 
was I. Our marriage might have turned out differ¬ 
ently.” 

“But it didn’t, sweetheart, so what’s the use of worry¬ 
ing ?” 

“I’m not worrying, but—are you really satisfied, 
Damer? I’ve often wanted to ask you.” 

“Then you might have spared yourself the trouble.” 
He had no idea how hungrily she longed for the reassur¬ 
ance in words of what she really knew in her heart. Then 
something a little wistful in her look touched him. 
“Look here, little girl, I don’t need to say these things 
every time, do I ? Don’t you know that you’ve made me 
happier than I had any mortal right to expect? Don’t 
you know quite well what you mean to me? Haven’t 
I shown you? Haven’t I, Pam?” His voice caressed 
her with reference to their deeper moments of joy. 

She turned a happy, moved face to him. 

“Yes. Yes, dear one, but you don’t realize—some¬ 
times, in spite of it all, I feel as if I must hear it in words.” 

“Words?” He made a little, contemptuous sound. 
“What do words matter between you and me?” 

“Oh, they don’t—they don’t!” she cried joyously. Her 
heart sang. All was well with the world in this land 
of light and colour, of wonder and mystery, of radiance 
such as now filled the western sky. 

They had left behind the deserted graveyard and the 


198 


STOLEN HONEY 


beaten mud paths of the palm grove, and entered the 
town once more. 

“I must tell Dido not to get so far ahead. It's better 
for us to keep together,” said Langrishe, pressing for¬ 
ward. 

Dido had slackened speed. Her reins fell loosely on the 
donkey’s neck. He picked his own way through the multi¬ 
coloured crowd, followed by the donkey-boy. As they 
went through the street of high houses, suddenly from 
one—tall, secret-looking, and shuttered closely with 
brown mushrabiyeh lattices—came the sound of a voice 
rising and falling to the monotonous throb of a tambour¬ 
ine, which beat like a pulse, under the bare hand of the 
player. All at once the voice rose with a shrill poign- 
ance to a height which seemed almost impossible, so thin, 
so piercing was it, before it died away with the thrill and 
turn beloved of the Egyptian singer. 

Dido stiffened to attention at the sound, stirred to a 
thrill of expectancy. Something of the wild passion of 
the song found an uneasy echo within her. For an in¬ 
credible moment she felt as if it were upon her heart that 
the bare hand of the tambourine-player was beating. 

“Hallo, Dido, were you running away from us?” 

She turned a white little face towards her father’s 
smiling brown one. 

“You can judge by my pace,” she answered, with an 
effort at lightness. “It wasn’t exactly that of a runaway.” 

“Not exactly. You’re looking a bit white, little girl. 
Hope you haven’t got a touch of the sun ?” 

“Oh, no!” Dido cried impatiently. “I’m always 
white. Even this sun won’t brown me.” 

Letters lay on the table in the hall as they entered, a 
little tired, a little flat after the excitement of the after¬ 
noon. 


DIDO PLAYS FAIR 


199 


One for Pamela was addressed in a large, careless 
hand-writing, in which the “m’s” and “n’s” and “u’s” were 
all formed alike. 

She took it up and looked it over in the wondering 
way in which people generally inspect an unfamiliar writ¬ 
ing. It bore the Cairo postmark. 

‘‘Who on earth can be writing to me from Cairo ?” she 
said. “I don’t know anyone there.” 

“Can’t you open it and see?” suggested Dido tartly, 
annoyed by her indecision. 

“Quite an idea,” smiled Pamela, “though somehow I 
feel as if it weren’t altogether a nice letter.” 

“Do you really believe in intuitions like that, Pam?” 

“Indeed I do. I think we’d get on far better if we paid 
more attention to them, instead of trying to stifle or ignore 
them as we do.” She tore open the envelope, and took out 
the folded sheet, looking up quickly when she saw the 
signature, “Heloise Waring.” 

She bit back an exclamation as she read it, then handed 
the letter to Langrishe. 

“It’s from Mrs. Waring. She says she’s going up to 
Luxor after Christmas. She wants to know when we 
can have her.” 

“Ah, then your intuition was at fault this time, Pam,” 
said Langrishe, not displeased at this prick to the bubble 
of his wife’s superstition, as he dubbed it. 

Dido, after a glance at Pamela’s face, chuckled to her¬ 
self as she went upstairs to her own room, a letter from 
Doran crumpled in her hand. Her father’s voice followed 
her. 

“Ask her to come to us for Christmas, Pam. 
Christmas is a lonely time to be away from one’s home.” 

“She must be used to it,” murmured Pamela rebelliously. 

“We might ask Doran down to stay, too,” went on 


200 


STOLEN HONEY 


Langrishe, alight with the fire of hospitality. “We’ve 
room enough, haven’t we?” 

“Oh, quite,” said Pamela flatly. 

“And we’ll have de Marsac in to dine, and as many 
of the Barrage fellows as we can. Eve ordered a turkey 
already. You can show Mahmud how to do the plum¬ 
pudding and mince-pies, can’t you?” 

“Plum-pudding and mince-pies in this weather! It 
does sound incongruous!” 

“We’ll have a real home Christmas. Write down to 
Cairo for crackers and things, Pam.” Langrishe exhaled 
a boyish delight as he made his plans, which made Pamela 
feel that she would do anything in the world to further 
them. 

“I’ll put Mrs. Waring in the room looking over the 
river. Tim can have that small one at the back. Where 
shall I write for the crackers ?” 

“Ask Mrs. Durrant. We’ll have her, and Durrant, 
too, and the Weirs and Granthams, if they can come.” 

“Darner, you’ll have to build a dining-room if you go 
on at this rate!” 

“Never mind. Where there’s heart-room there’s house- 
room, and this will be my first Christmas in my own 
home for I don’t know how many years.” 

“Ah, my dear!” Pamela melted suddenly, though the 
thought of Mrs. Waring’s coming lay on her heart like a 
physical weight. 

The idea of visitors was not altogether unwelcome to 
Dido, for she felt that the presence of another woman in 
the house would keep Pamela’s attention off her own 
affairs, for the moment. She was beginning to have a 
wholesome respect for her stepmother’s powers of per¬ 
ception, and was still puzzled as to how she had made 
the discovery of her previous knowledge of Doran. 


DIDO PLAYS FAIR 


201 


Dido flattered herself that she had carried it off very 
well. Tubby had played up like a brick, too, though she 
half wished he hadn’t rushed off so early the next morn¬ 
ing. It seemed to give the show away, rather. What in 
the world was he writing to her about now ? She wished 
he wouldn’t. 

She smoothed out the crumpled envelope, and opened 
it. It was brief and to the point. 

"Dear Curly,” Tim’s note ran: 

"What do you want me to do? Am I to come in 
and out as usual, or would you rather I stayed away? Just 
let me know. 

"Yours, 

"Tubby.” 

"Nothing very impassioned about that!” breathed Dido, 
with a sigh of satisfaction. 

She tossed her hat on the bed, pulled the amber ribbon 
from her hair, and ran her fingers through it. Her head 
was hot, but she did not attribute it to the sun. 

Acting on impulse, she sat down at the little writing 
table which Pamela had provided for her, and dashed 
off an answer to Doran’s letter. 

"Dear Tubby, 

"Come or stay away, just as you like. Pam knows 
that we have met before. I don’t know how she found 
out, unless you told her. If you stay away, perhaps it may 
mean complications, and we can’t afford that. But do as 
you think best. 

"Yours, 

"Curly.” 

"Idiotic name!” she said viciously, closing the envelope 
with a thump of her small, fine hand. "Idiotic time alto¬ 
gether ! I can’t imagine how we were such young asses! 
Well, it’s over and done with now, thank goodness. This 


202 


STOLEN HONEY 


is the last of it. I must warn Tubby never to call me 
Curly again. All that is dead and buried. The past is 
past.” 

Suddenly, with that irrelevance with which memory 
sometimes flicks aside a corner of her veil to show one a 
forgotten picture, Dido saw a class-room full of girls, a 
mistress standing near a blackboard with a piece of chalk 
in her hand, and a shaft of sunlight falling through a 
window upon the clear, white words which she had just 
written: 

“The past can never die; what has been will be again 
and the things a mkm has once suffered, he must still 
endure!” 

It had been the theme for their weekly essay, and Dido 
remembered the grimace she had made at sight of it. 
She had thought the words erased from her mind as 
quickly as they had been from the blackboard, and lo, 
now they leaped out of the past to confront her with their 
pessimistic menace! 

She knew a moment’s vague uneasiness. 

“I’m getting as bad as Pam, with her intuitions,” she 
thought, shrugging her disquietude away. “Poor old 
Mammy Pam, what a transparent countenance she has! 
Now, how am I to get this posted without her knowing 
it? I don’t want to arouse her suspicions any more than 
I need.” She paused, frowning, envelope in hand. 
“Of course she knows Tubby’s writing. She’ll wonder 
at the correspondence. Oh, damn!” 

Suddenly her face changed. Light flashed. She 
opened her door, and ran along the corridor to Pamela’s 
room, beating a light tattoo on the door with insistent 
fingers. 

“Come in,” called Pamela 

Dido entered to find her stepmother, wrapped in a deep 


DIDO PLAYS FAIR 


203 


blue silk kimono, seated by the open window, looking out 
across the river to the rosy Arabian Hills, with their amber 
clefts and amethyst shadows. 

She looked round with a smile at the girl’s entrance. 
Dido thought that her gown was no bluer than her eyes, 
and the cherry-blossom embroidered on it no whiter than 
her neck and arms. 

“I’m lazy, Dido. I haven’t changed yet,” she said, . 
stretching out her arms in a luxurious languor. 

“Nor I,” answered Dido, seating herself on the ledge 
of the French window that opened on the loggia without. 
“Look here, Pam, I’ve just had a line from Tubby Doran.” 

“Oh! What did he say?” asked Pamela, with quick¬ 
ened interest. 

Dido faced her with obvious frankness, her hands 
clasped round her knees. 

“He just wrote to know what I wanted him to do. 
Whether I’d rather he came or stayed away. Awfully 
decent of the old thing, wasn’t it ?” 

“Dido, what can it matter to you whether he comes or 
goes, if there was nothing between you?” Pamela 
countered with an unexpected swiftness. 

Dido blinked and looked away. 

“As to that, I—I thought you gathered that there had 
been—well—passages between us,” she answered airily. 

“Did you hurt him, Dido?” the accusing voice went 
on “I have a reason for asking.” 

Dido moved restlessly, then broke out: 

“If a man cares for a girl, and—and she doesn’t care 
for him, can she help hurting him ?” 

Pamela, eager to be just, pondered this for a moment. 
Then she admitted slowly: 

“No. I don’t suppose she can. Poor Tim! But 
perhaps I would rather say poor Dido!” 


204 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Why poor Dido ?” asked the girl quickly. 

“Because you couldn’t care for him. He’s worth caring 
for, Dido.” 

“Is he? Well, perhaps. Anyhow, the whole thing is 
over and done with, and I’ve written to tell him to come 
or stay away, just as he likes.” She rose. “Can I put 
this letter with yours to be posted ?” 

Pamela got up, too. 

“Certainly. Leave it on my dressing-table there, and 
I’ll see that it goes.” She came a step forward and put 
her hands on Dido’s shoulders. “Dido, dear, it was good 
of you to tell me this. I—I can’t say how much I appre¬ 
ciate it. I want to be friends with you. Don’t you know 
that? I want you to feel that you can trust me.” 

“Would I have told you this about Tubby and me if 
I didn’t?” 

“No, and that’s why I am so pleased.” 

“It takes very little to please you, Mammy Pam,” 
cried Dido, making a queer little grimace. 

She put up her hands to the two on her shoulders, gave 
them a quick squeeze, and drew away. 

“Oh, no, it doesn’t,” answered Pamela smiling. “You 
can’t call trust and truth very little, Dido.” 

“No?” said Dido, biting her lips, as she ran out of the 
room, having left her letter behind her. 


CHAPTER XXI 


FIRELIGHT 

Doran came to El-Armut only once before the Christmas 
party. He dropped in late one afternoon between trains, 
just as the early dusk was falling with true Eastern swift¬ 
ness, to find Pamela sitting by a small wood fire in the 
dining-room. 

“Hallo! Pam, all alone? This is cosy!’* he cried 
cheerily. “Has your family deserted you?” 

“Not altogether,” answered Pamela, feeling a tinge of 
awkwardness in the unexpected encounter. “Dido has 
gone with Mrs. Durrant to the Barrage quarters to play 
tennis, but I am expecting Darner back at any moment for 
tea.” 

“Good luck my finding you by yourself for a minute, 
Pam,” he said, sinking into a chair near her. “You’re 
such a popular person these days that I never can get a 
word with you.” 

“Ah, nonsense, Timsy! It comes well from you to say 
that!” Pamela looked at him and away again wondering 
if he had anything special to say to her. It was for him 
to make advances though. She was not going to force 
anyone’s confidences. “Sure, I’m always talking to you?” 

“I haven’t seen you since the night of your dinner¬ 
party,” he began. 

“You haven’t been in!” 

“No more I have. Well, Pam, I just ran down between 
trains to-day to accept your Christmas invitation in per¬ 
son.” 


205 


206 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Good! I was hoping you would.” 

“Were you?” His tone was a little wistful, she 
thought. 

“I was indeed. I’ll have you to stand buffer between 
me and Mrs. Waring-” 

“Good God, is that woman coming here, too? I’ll re¬ 
tract my-” 

“Oh, no you won’t. You’ll have to amuse me while 
Darner’s looking after her.” 

“Very well. That’s a bargain. You’ve promised to be 
nice to me, remember.” 

“Aren’t I always nice to you, Timsy?” cried Pamela, 
her spirits lightening at his normality. 

“Indeed you are, God bless you,” Doran stopped and 
looked at her with genuine affection. 

There was still something to be said between them, but 
he did not quite know how to put it into words. Perhaps 
Pamela saw this, for she broached the difficult subject 
herself with a quiet ordinariness for which he was duly 
grateful. 

“Tim, Dido has admitted to me that you and she knew 
each other in England before you met here the other 
night.” 

“We did. But how on earth did you find out, Pam?” 

“I overhead her calling you ‘Tubby’ when you went 
into the drawing-room. I wasn’t listening, Tim,” she 
added, with a sudden flush. “I—I couldn’t help hearing.” 

“You needn’t tell me that,” Doran returned with a 
consoling warmth. “Did—did she tell you how we met?” 

“She did. She said it was at an artist friend’s, and that 
you all called each other by nicknames. I suppose it was 
all right, Tim?” 

“Oh, quite respectable, if you mean that. The girl, 
Rose Bladen—Binky—was as mad as a hatter, and as 


FIRELIGHT 


207 


wild as a hare, but absolutely straight. We ragged a lot. 
You know the way youngsters fool—but perhaps you 
don’t.” He broke off and looked at her with anxious eyes, 
as if pleading for understanding. “One goes a bit mad 
at times. There’s a May madness, and a June madness, 
and a moon madness—oh, what rot I’m talking!” 

“No, you’re not. Go on.” 

“There’s nothing more to say, really.” 

Silence fell for a moment. Then Pamela spoke rather 
shyly. 

“Tim, don’t think it’s vulgar curiosity on my part-” 

“I wouldn’t think anything you asked me vulgar cu¬ 
riosity, Pam.” 

“Then, Timsy, dear, was Dido the girl?” 

For a moment he had the impulse to fence foolishly 
with a—“What girl?” but he changed his mind and 
nodded: “She was.” 

“And you still care?” 

“I still care.” 

“Will it hurt you to go on seeing her?” 

“’Twould hurt me more not to see her.” 

“My poor boy!” Pamela’s tone trembled to an ex¬ 
quisite sympathy as she put her hand gently on his knee. 

It was at this moment that Langrishe entered. The 
room was dark save for the splutter of blue and saffron 
flames from the fire, but there was light enough for him to 
see that Pamela was sitting there with her hand on some 
man’s knee. 

She turned at his entrance, and took her hand quietly 
away. A log charred and fell, sending up a tongue of 
flame. By its light he saw that her eyes were wet. 

“It’s Tim, Darner,” she said. “We’ve been talking so 
hard that I forgot to ring for lights.” 

“Let me,” said Doran rising. “I came down to an- 


208 


STOLEN HONEY 


swer my Christmas invitation in person, Mr. Langrishe.” 

“Good. Hope you’re coming.” Langrishe’s tone was 
not quite so cordial as usual. He had been looking for¬ 
ward to tete-a-tete tea with Pamela, and felt disappointed 
at the presence of a third person. 

“Indeed, I am,” answered Doran, seeing no flaw. 
“Tisn’t likely I’d refuse a jolly invitation like that. It’s 
awfully good of you to ask me. It will be quite like home. 
You’re having a house-party, Pam tells me.” 

“Only Mrs. Waring and yourself,” Langrishe rejoined. 
“A family-party practically. Pam’s old friend and 
mine.” 

Pamela tried to warm to the thought, but could not. 
As the time approached she felt her distaste at the idea of 
Mrs. Waring’s coming wax rather than wane. 

Talk flowed on general subjects until after tea, when 
Doran rose to take his leave. 

Langrishe went out into the hall to see him off, his little 
flicker of ill-humour completely vanished. 

Pamela was leaning against the chimney-piece when he 
returned, poking a log with the toe of her shoe. 

Langrishe came up to her and put his arm round her. 

“I felt almost murderous when I came in just now and 
found Doran here!” 

“Darner! How dreadful! Poor Tim! Why?” Pam¬ 
ela leaned back against him, and put one hand to his 
face. 

“I’d been looking forward to having tea alone with 
you for once.” 

She made a little crooning sound. 

“My dear one! But he didn’t stay long, anyhow.” 

“No. He had that much grace.” 

Pamela laughed happily. It was like an hour from the 


FIRELIGHT 


209 

honeymoon miraculously vouchsafed, with the deeper 
understanding of the passing days added. 

“Pam! What was he saying that made you cry ?” 

“Made me cry?” Pamela moved in his arms to glance 
up at him. “But he didn’t, Darner. He was telling me 
something that made me a little unhappy.” 

“Your eyes were wet when I came in.” 

“Oh, that?” she cried relieved. “He-” 

“About himself, eh?” 

“About himself. Yes.” 

“A love affair ?” Langrishe’s staccato questions pattered 
like hail. 

“Well, it was,” Pamela admitted reluctantly. 

“An unlucky one?” 

“You might call it so.” 

“Misplaced affection, so to speak?” 

“I suppose so. Don’t ask me any more, dearest. It’s 
poor old Tim’s business, not ours.” 

“Well, don’t worry your tender heart about it. Bless 
you, Pam, young men fall in and out of love half a dozen 
times before the real thing comes.” 

“Do they? Did you, Darner?” 

“I expect I did. I’ve quite forgotten.” 

“Since when?” she asked, very low, leaning against 
him with a sense of joy in his strength and size. 

“Since—well, since I married you, anyhow.” 

“In spite of its being a marriage of convenience ?” 

She stirred in his arms, and put her face up to his. 

“I hate to have you call it that, Pam. It wasn’t, really.” 

“I’m afraid it was, on the face of it, my dearest.” 

“It was not,” exclaimed Langrishe quite hotly. “When 
I made up my mind to marry again, you were the one and 
only person I thought of.” 



210 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Was I? How dear of you to tell me so! And you 
were the one and only person I’d have married under those 
conditions.” 

“Why?” asked Langrishe, rather breathlessly. 

“Because I always liked the shape of your nose,” 
answered Pamela, with a happy laugh. 

Langrishe’s arms went quickly round her, crushing her 
to him. 

“My sweetheart!” he murmured as he loosed her. “It's 
all right now, isn't it?” 

“All right, indeed,” she was saying, when the door 
opened suddenly to admit Dido and what seemed like an 
avalanche of young men. 

The two moved apart quickly. Dido came forward 
with her train, which resolved itself into two tall youths. 

“I've brought Mr. Welland and Mr. Darby back to 
dinner, Pam. Pve promised to teach them some of the 
new dances. You don’t mind, do you?” 

“You monkey, small use ’twould be if I did!” thought 
Pamela, while aloud she gave courteous greeting to the 
unexpected guests. “You’re very welcome, both of you.” 

“I knew that if you had enough for Dad you’d have at 
least enough for two more,” Dido continued saucily. 

“The deuce you did!” murmured her father. “How¬ 
ever, we are always ready for an extra guest or two. 
Pamela is full of resource.” He looked at his wife 
proudly. 

“Didn’t I live in Ireland all my life?” she answered. 
“Sure, you know what that means.” 

“What does it mean, Mrs. Langrishe?” asked Welland, 
a fair, imperturbable youth. 

“It means that you never think you’ve half enough 
unless you’ve got twice too much,” said Pamela. “Dido, 
we’d better change now, and let the men have a smoke.” 


FIRELIGHT 


211 

As they went upstairs Dido asked casually: 

“Any adventures while I was out?” 

“None,” Pamela answered; then, recollecting, con¬ 
tinued : “Oh, I forgot. We had a flying visit from Tim 
Doran.” 

In spite of herself, her tone hardened a little. She 
found it difficult to forgive Dido’s treatment of her old 
playmate. She could not help feeling that the girl was in 
some measure to blame, that she must have played fast 
and loose with him in those past reckless days. 

Dido stopped on the landing outside her room. 

“What did he want?” 

“He came to answer the Christmas invitation in person.” 

“Is he coming?” 

“He is. Don’t—don’t torment him any more than you 
can help, Dido.” 

“I’m sure I don’t want to torment him,” cried Dido 
impatiently. “On the other hand, I don’t want to raise 
false hopes in him.” 

“Need they be always false?” ventured Pamela in¬ 
coherently. “I—I don’t mean exactly now, but some 
day—later on—when he—when you-” 

“When he—when I—grow old and grey, perhaps,” Dido 
mocked. “Don’t try your hand at match-making, Mammy 
Pam. You’ll only burn your fingers if you do.” 

Pamela turned away, discomfited, annoyed with her¬ 
self for her sentimental disregard of her husband’s wishes. 
She had broken a lance for Tim, who was well able to 
fight his own battles, and had done no good for his cause 
with Dido. 

Darner was quite right. She should not have inter¬ 
fered. She ought to have remembered all the warning 
adages relative to minding one’s own business. She went 
into her room and looked across the river to where the 


212 


STOLEN HONEY 


dim hills showed as a blur against the dark night sky. 
She went out on to the loggia. Shafts of light streamed 
across the terrace in golden bars from the drawing-room 
windows beneath. 

A black shadow barred the radiance nearest her, and a 
scent of cigarette-smoke floated upwards. One of the men 
stood below. A little owl hooted from the palm-trees at 
the end of the terrace— hou-hou, hou-hou! A chilly wind 
blew suddenly up the river, ruffling its darkness to silver 
streaks here and there. 

Pamela shivered slightly, and stepped back into the 
warmth and light of her own room, to find that Darner 
had already come up. 

“I left Dido downstairs, entertaining those youngsters,” 
he said. “I want a tub before I dress.” 

“She must have changed like a flash of lightning,” 
exclaimed Pamela, Wondering how long she had stood 
looking at the river. 

“Ah, she doesn’t let the grass grow under her feet,” 
said Langrishe fondly. 

“Meaning, I suppose that I do ?” 

“In my young days I was taught that comparisons were 
odious,” Langrishe rebuked her, smiling. “You didn’t 
mind her asking those boys back to dinner ?” 

“Not a bit. Did you?” 

“Oh, the more the merrier,” Langrishe returned. 

Pamela had an intuition that he felt there was safety 
in numbers. He did not want to lose his little girl yet. 
She hurried into her frock, and went downstairs to tell 
Hassan to lay two more places. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE COMING OF THE WHITE CLOUD 

As Christmas drew nearer, Pamela’s spirits fluctuated like 
a pendulum. 

She fought with all her might against the strange sense 
of depression which the mere thought of Mrs. Waring’s 
coming induced, and wondered what the reality would be 
like. 

She told herself that it would be very churlish of her 
to grudge Darner the pleasure of his old friend’s visit, 
especially when he made his home open house to Tim 
Doran. Yet, even while she argued with herself, she knew 
perfectly well that jealousy of any sort had nothing to 
do with their feeling. Darner might have asked twenty 
friends to stay, and she would have welcomed them all 
with open arms, if—and it was a potent conjunction— 
Heloise Waring had not been among the number! 

It was a personal antagonism, swift and unalterable as 
that which had sprung to birth between Doran and de 
Marsac. 

True to the coincidences that linked them inimically, de 
Marsac, like Doran, paid only one visit to the house by the 
river-bank before Christmas. 

On this occasion he, unlike his rival, had found it disap¬ 
pointingly empty. The ladies had gone to play tennis at 
Mrs. Durrant’s, a smiling Hassan informed him. 

That was the first rasp to his smooth assurance. He 
had visioned a piquante, provocative Dido, ready to re- 
213 


214 


STOLEN HONEY 


spond to the charm he meant to exert over her, and lo, an 
echoing vacancy. 

Slightly piqued, he made his way to Mrs. Durrant’s 
house. It stood nearer the town of El-Armut, but was 
built upon the same plan as the Langrishes’, save that its 
garden was larger and boasted a good asphalt tennis-court. 

A manservant led him through the house to the garden. 
Mrs. Durrant rose to meet him as he approached, flushing 
slightly at the thought of her omitted invitation. 

“How nice of you to come, M. de Marsac,” she said, 
with a warmth induced by the spur of conscience. 

“Even without an invitation ?” he smiled. 

“You know that you are always welcome/’ said Mrs. 
Durrant. 

“You have been kind enough to say so,” he reminded 
her. 

“Will you play tennis?” 

“I did not bring shoes, not knowing you had a party,” 
he returned. 

“That doesn’t matter; Jim will lend you a pair. You’ll 
find a splendid partner in either of the JLangrishes. 
They’re both awfully good.” 

Dido gave him a cool hand and Pamela a more friendly 
greeting. 

“Perhaps you will honour me by playing with me, 
madame?” he said, seized with a desire to punish Dido 
for her casual manner. 

“I shall be delighted,” Pamela answered. “It will be 
the next set, I think. This one is already made up.” 

Dido and Welland, Judge Weir, and Mrs. Grantham 
were on the court. For the rest of the day, the girl was 
surrounded. De Marsac did not get even a chance of 
trying his new tactics. It was not that she avoided him, 
or if she did, it was so skilfully done that he was unaware 


THE COMING OF THE WHITE CLOUD 215 


of it. It was simply that he was crowded out; an entirely 
novel sensation for the amateur of women, and one which 
touched him at his tenderest point. 

To be thwarted thus, and by a mere girl, flicked him on 
the raW. Almost he could have believed that he had 
dreamed that tense little desert episode. Almost he felt 
as if he must have imagined that glimpse of primitive 
woman. Memory must have played him- false, he assured 
himself. He had never had that wild bird fluttering be¬ 
neath his hand. 

He watched her, without looking at her, all the after¬ 
noon. There was not a gesture, a movement of hers of 
which he was unaware. 

Her coolness, her easy conquest of the older men and 
the callow youths twisted his lips to a cynical smile be¬ 
neath the clipped moustache. She had tried her little 
wiles on him and failed, he told himself. Then suddenly, 
across the tennis-court, her great eyes opened on his with 
the fire he had surprised in them before. To his chagrin 
his heart gave a wild leap in response. His _ pulses 
throbbed. His throat swelled. 

She had not failed, after all, if she could move him like 
this. Under the easy flow of conversation an undercur¬ 
rent of feeling ran, drawing him—whither ? Anger 
surged in him. He was no schoolboy to be fired by a 
mere girl’s glance he thought fiercely. 

Yet as he watched the quick slim creature flit about the 
tennis-ground playing with a crisp dainty precision that 
invariably made her side the winning one, glancing from 
beneath her long lashes at the other men, chattering, 
laughing, commanding—and all the while ignoring him, 
de Marsac, the most virile man present—he was conscious 
of an almost overmastering desire to run amongst them, to 
scatter them right and left, and snatching up this tantaliz- 


216 


STOLEN HONEY 


ing, elusive elf-maid speed away with her to some solitary 
fastness, and show her who was her master. 

The touch of her hand at parting sent fire through 
him. 

“Good-night primitive woman,” he murmured for her 
ear alone. 

“We’re not primitive here,” she answered lightly. 
“We’re very, very civilized.” 

“Does it then take the desert to pierce the veneer ?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“When are you coming to it again?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Ask Mrs. Langrishe,” she an¬ 
swered carelessly, though her heart beat so loudly that she 
thought he must hear it. 

“I don’t want Mrs. Langrishe, I want you,” de Marsac 
said, as if the words were drawn from him against his will. 

“Do you?” 

“But—yes.” 

“We mustn’t trangress les convenances,” said Dido 
veiling her eyes as she looked at him. 

“Damn les convenances!” muttered, de Marsac. Then 
he caught at swift control. “Pardon, but is that good 
English, mademoiselle ?” 

“Excellent English, monsieur,” she smiled turning away. 

De Marsac bit his lip. In that moment desire was born, 
resolution made. 

“I shall either bend her or break her,” he swore to him¬ 
self, “but have her I will.” 

From the other side of the court Dido looked back over 
her shoulder at him childishly, flashing him a smile of 
farewell. 

He had to summon all his resolution to keep himself 
from following her. 

“I will not be whistled tor her heel like a dog,” he 


THE COMING OF THE WHITE CLOUD 217 


thought angrily, as he turned to accept Jim Durrant’s in¬ 
vitation to drinks and cigars. 

Pamela had a word with Mrs. Durrant before she left. 

“I think you were mistaken about the dangerousness of 
poor M. de Marsac,” she said. 

“Why?” 

“Well, he didn’t even look at Dido all the afternoon.” 

“It would have been more natural if he had,” murmured 
Monica Durrant. “One girl amongst all those men, and 
an oddly attractive one, too! Keep your eye on de 
Marsac, dear, and trust him as far as you see him, no 
farther!” 

“Dear me, how complicated life seems to be!” sighed 
Pamela, as she followed the surrounded Dido to the gate 
with Mr. and Mrs. Weir. “I wonder how many men Dido 
is going to bring home to dinner to-night.” 

Mrs. Waring was due to arrive at El-Armut on the day 
before Christmas Eve. 

The very thought of such an essentially winter festival 
seemed almost incredible to Pamela, in her present atmos¬ 
phere. The brilliant sunshine, the flowers, the palms 
made an incongruous setting; and yet, as she reminded 
herself, it was more or less amid such surroundings that the 
Christchild had been born. Tender thoughts, secret 
thoughts mingled with her housewifely anxieties as the 
time drew nearer. 

Christmas was essentially the children’s festival, she 

mused. “Would she ever-?” Then Hassan or Ali 

would come with a question and break the thread of her 
gossamer-like wonderings. 

“You take far too much trouble over Louisa’s room,” 
Dido declared one day, when she discovered that Pamela 
had got Hassan to place her long mirror therein. “No 
matter what you do, the place will look unfurnished after 


2l8 


STOLEN HONEY 


her own home luxuries. We’re only picnicking here for 
the moment. She must put up with things as she finds 
them.” 

Pamela, flushed with her hospitable rearrangings, re¬ 
turned the rebuke. 

“Do you think you ought to speak of your mother’s 
friend like that, Dido?” 

Dido laughed. 

“Dear old Mammy Pam, how sentimental you are, I 
was only a kid when mother died, of course, but I have 
an excellent memory, and to my recollection the fair 
Louisa’s friendship was a friendship of convenience, 
nothing more. It suited her book to come to us, for cold 
weathers in India. It suits her book to come and stay 
with us now. Affection for poor mother has very little to 
say to it.” 

Pamela moved uncomfortably. 

“Your father seems to think very highly of her.” 

“Pam, your besetting sin is a sense of duty,” laughed 
Dido. “Dad would think highly of any woman who 
talked in a soft voice and was sufficiently platitudi¬ 
nous.” 

“Come now, Dido!” 

“Which is just the same as saying that he’s only a man,” 
Dido continued. “Louisa works his wedding-day for all 
it’s worth. Dear old Dad !” 

Suddenly Pamela fell from the altitude of her high 
principles. 

“Mrs. Waring told me that she was one of Cousin 
Helena’s little bridesmaids.” 

Dido hooted with joyful derision. 

“Little! I like that! She was about as little then 
as she is now! Priceless! I am looking forward to her 


THE COMING OF THE WHITE CLOUD 219 

visit. But don’t make yourself too agreeable, Pam, or she 
may stay longer than we wish.” 

“She couldn’t stay shorter than I wish,” sighed Pam¬ 
ela. “Only for goodness sake don’t let your father 
know I said so!” 

“I’m no more a tell-tale than you are, Pam,” retorted 
Dido. 

A secret shared is the strongest of bonds. A mutual 
dislike runs it close. In spite of her resentment at 
Doran’s hurt, Pamela felt more drawn to her stepdaughter 
than she had done since the first disillusionment of her 
arrival. She felt that the girl had no sentimental asso¬ 
ciations with her mother’s old friend. That in itself was 
a relief. There was also that mutual sex-sympathy which 
links two women together in wonder at their menfolk’s 
admiration of a third—a pitying wonder, not untinged 
with amusement. 

Langrishe was openly delighted at the prospect of the 
Christmas party. He and Pamela ransacked the bazaars 
for gifts for their expected guests. They had dispatched 
a box of treasures to Carrigrennan weeks before—gold 
embroidered scarves, bead chains in wonderful blues and 
greens and yellows, quaint tear-bottles, embroidered 
leather bags and cases. A black-and-silver shawl was 
sent separately to Great-Aunt Lucilla. 

Generous himself, he pressed her to a lavishness of 
expenditure hitherto undreamed of. Often, when pricked 
by some trifle to annoyance, she thought of his goodness 
to her and hers, with a swelling gratitude which nothing 
could diminish. With misty eyes she pictured the opening 
of that treasure-box at Carrigrennan, and wished that she 
could fly thither to see the sight—her mother’s joy and 
pride in her gold-embroidered scarf, the girls’ delight in 


220 


STOLEN HONEY 


their gay trifles, her father’s pleasure in his coloured 
leather note-case and turquoise-blue tear-bottle. She could 
see that on the study chimneypiece, flanked by the pipe- 
stand Randall had carved in his schooldays. 

But not for anything would she have returned to the old 
life, with its ceaseless round of trivialities which, on look¬ 
ing back, seemed to matter so little. Here she was in the 
midst of work, in a land where men did things—big things, 
whether it were building barrages, tempering native liti¬ 
gation with British justice, or excavating lost temples. 

She showed Langrishe the guest-rooms with some pride 
on the day of Mrs. Waring’s arrival. He looked round 
appraisingly. 

“Neat, but not gaudy,” he said of Doran’s bachelor 
quarters. 

He was more critical of Mrs. Waring’s apartment. 

“Looks a bit bare, doesn’t it?” he said, after a hasty 
glance. 

“Darner! I’ve had the best things out of my own room 
put in here!” 

“Have you, dear? That’s right!” he returned. “I’m 
sure everything is Very nice, only—well, I’ve been in her 
house in London, and it seemed to me just the last word in 
luxury.” 

“If that’s what she wants, why doesn’t she stay there?” 
Pamela blurted out. 

“She has a delicate chest. She must follow the sun,” 
explained Langrishe, with admirable patience. “Did she 
say if she was bringing a maid?” 

“She didn’t. She hasn’t got one. At least, she hadn’t 
on the Syria” 

“Maids are expensive luxuries,” put in Dido unex¬ 
pectedly from the doorway. “Their tongues have to 
be bought as well as their services.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE GUEST ARRIVES 

Langrishe turned on her, lowering as a thunder-cloud. 

She met his gaze with imperturbably tilted face. 

“Well, Dad? It’s true” 

“It is not true of Mrs. Waring, at any rate. I’ll do you 
the justice to believe that you don’t realize the full mean¬ 
ing of your abominable implication.” 

“That would be an injustice, Dad.” 

Langrishe frowned. 

“I won’t have you say such things of any guest of mine.” 

“She’s not your guest yet. Besides, I only made a 

general remark. If the cap fits-” Dido shrugged her 

shoulders, and flitted away. Langrishe turned to Pamela, 
a feeling of helplessness undermining his anger. 

“That child is getting beyond herself. I won’t have it.” 

“Don’t,” Pamela advised him significantly. 

“Can’t you use your influence?” 

“I haven’t any. Besides when she first came, Dido 
warned me that our friendship entirely depended on my 
not trying to influence her, ‘or any tosh of that sort.’ I 
think those were her exact words,” said Pamela calmly. 

Langrishe made an inarticulate sound, raised his hand 
and let it fall again, as if recognizing the futility of further 
argument. 

“Heloise will be here in time for tea. I’ll meet her and 
bring her straight home.” 

“Very well. I’ll get Mahmud to make some of his 
221 



222 


STOLEN HONEY 


delicious little tea cakes,” said Pamela, with a desire for 
conciliation. 

When he had gone she sat down, wondering heavily if 
the mere mention of Heloise Waring’s name were sufficient 
to create such a jarring atmosphere what would her real 
presence evoke? 

As often happens, anticipation exceeded reality; at 
least as far as the arrival went. 

It was a very gracious lady who floated into Pamela’s 
drawing-room at five o’clock, with outstretched hands. 

“But how charming you have made this room!” she 
cried. “Quite homelike. It’s really delicious after the 
bustle of hotel life. It was sweet of you both to ask me 
here for Christmas.” She looked from one to the other. 
“It’s such a home festival.” 

“It was sweet of you to come,” said Langrishe, beam¬ 
ing at her from where he stood with his back to the fire. 
“I daresay there will be all sorts of tamashas on in Cairo. 
The wonder is how you tore yourself away.” 

Mrs. Waring threw back the floating veil that made 
such a becoming background for her fairness. 

“One gets a little tired of such tamashas. They count 
for nothing where friendship is concerned.” She smiled 
up into Langrishe’s eyes as she took a cup of tea from his 
hands; then, descending to the mundane, she turned to 
Pamela. “How do you get your cook to make such 
heavenly little cakes ? Or perhaps, your own clever 
fingers? You look as if you would be a domestic treas¬ 
ure.” 

Pamela, who felt unreasonably irritated by this en¬ 
comium, tried to answer lightly. 

“Like George Washington; ‘I cannot tell a lie, Papa.’ 
It is Mahmud who is the domestic treasure this time!” 
She hated herself for her flippancy the moment she had 


THE GUEST ARRIVES 


223 


spoken. Damer would think her so silly; but Mrs. Waring 
had always the effect of making her say the wrong thing, 
or feel as if she had said it, which-was just as bad. 

“Such a stickler for the truth, dear Mrs. Langrishe! 
But no/’ Heloise Waring declared, delicately biting a tea¬ 
cake, and looking from host to hostess. “I positively 
can’t be so formal with your wife, Damer. I must call her 
Pamela, and she must call me Heloise—won’t you?” she 
thrust suddenly. 

Pamela reddened. 

“It’s awfully kind of you to want me to, but I’m very 
bad at calling people by their Christian names. Of course, 
you must call me Pamela, but-” 

“Why, even little Dido calls me Heloise,” put in Mrs. 
Waring, raising amused brows. 

Pamela’s lips twitched at the remembrance of what 
Dido really called their guest.. She sought for an answer, 
but Mrs. Waring spared her the trouble by continuing 
pleasantly: 

“Of course, you are still rather a country mouse, aren’t 
you ? But you will get used to all the strangeness in time, 
won’t she, Damer?” 

“Of course,” Langrishe answered. “But Pam is won¬ 
derful! She is quite acclimatized by this.” 

“Really ? And where is Dido ? Playing havoc among 
all the young men, I suppose.” 

“Playing tennis over at the Barrage-” 

“Which comes practically to the same thing,” Mrs. 
Waring said, smiling. “You won’t have her long on your 
hands, Damer.” 

“Darner’s in no hurry to get rid of her,” put in Pamela 
quickly. 

“I didn’t mean to suggest anything so crude. Dido is 
only having the playtime now which is every girl’s 


224 


STOLEN HONEY 


due. Dear child! In many cases she reminds me so 

of-” she stopped and sighed, as if she feared that a 

reference to the first wife might be tactless in the presence 
of the second. 

Pamela reddened uncomfortably, but Langrishe spoke 
with his usual bluntness. 

“Oh, Helena? Oh, no, I don’t think she’s really like 
her, except, perhaps, the colour of her hair. Helena’s 
didn’t curl like Dido’s, but her complexion was far better.” 

To Pamela’s relief, his tone held a quiet, unemotional 
reminiscence, nothing more. 

Heloise Waring spoke as softly as if the half-forgotten 
dead lay within the house. 

“Ah, yes. She had a complexion of milk and roses.” 

Somewhat to his own surprise, Langrishe found him¬ 
self desirous of vaunting the whiteness of Pamela’s skin. 
It was an absurd impulse, scotched as soon as born. 

“Wouldn’t you like to go to your room and rest before 
dinner?” Pamela asked. “You must be tired after your 
journey.” 

“Well, perhaps a little.” Mrs. Waring rose and looked 
round for gloves and wrap. 

Pamela had already picked them up and stood waiting. 
It suddenly occurred to her that the reason her guest 
dispensed with a maid was because she always found 
somebody ready to perform these little services for her. 

Mrs. Waring paused for a moment, glancing round to 
see if anything else were forgotten. Then she said 
lightly: 

“Have you discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Doran 
yet?” 

To her chagrin Pamela found herself blushing as Lan¬ 
grishe replied: 

“Yes. He’s up at Tahta, not so very far from this. 


THE GUEST ARRIVES 


225 


You’ll have an opportunity of renewing your acquaintance 
with him, Heloise, for he’s coming down to-morrow to 
spend Christmas with us.” 

“To spend Christmas here?” Mrs. Waring exclaimed, 
as if surprised. Then she shot a swift glance from Lan- 
grishe to Pamela. “That will be very—interesting,” she 
added, as she went gracefully out of the room. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


PAMELA TRIES TO LAY A GHOST 

Pamela felt as if the whole atmosphere of the house had 
changed as she opened the door of Mrs. Waring’s room 
and ushered her into it. 

“I hope you will be comfortable here,” she said, with an 
instinct of hospitality which no mere dislike could quell. 
“If you haven’t everything you want, just let me know, 
and I’ll see that you get it. The bathroom is quite near, 
but you can have your bath in your room, if you prefer it.” 

“Every luxury!” smiled Mrs. Waring graciously. “It 
all seems wonderful to a nomad like me.” 

Pamela, thinking that she had never seen a person to 
whom the term nomad could be less aptly applied, con¬ 
tinued her hospitable recital. 

“You would prefer your breakfast in bed, I’m sure. 
We are very early birds here. Darner likes to get across to 
the Barrage in good time; but there is no use in rousing 
you at that hour.” 

“Well, perhaps not,” Mrs. Waring admitted. “Though 
I can adapt myself to almost any circumstances. I’m 
such an old traveller, you know. You haven’t a maid, I 
suppose ?” 

“I haven’t. I don’t know what I’d do with one.” 

Mrs. Waring smiled a trifle disappointedly. 

“Ah, you’re still a country mouse, I see. But I thought 
that Darner would have been sure to insist on having a 
maid to look after his new treasure. Poor Helena always 
had one.” 


226 


PAMELA TRIES TO LAY A GHOST 227 

Pamela, resentfully unable to decide whether “country 
mouse” or “new treasure” were the more offensive term, 
blurted out: 

“I’m not as helpless as cousin Helena was. Darner 
knows that I was never accustomed to having a maid to 
look after me.” 

“Ah, no. Your circumstances were rather different 
perhaps.” Mrs. Waring unpinned her veil and removed 
her hat. 

“Totally different,” returned Pamela bluntly. “Now 
I must leave you to rest. We dine at eight.” She hesi¬ 
tated in the doorway, urged by her insistent sense of 
duty. “Can I help you to unpack?” 

“I couldn’t dream of troubling you, dear Pamela. 
Perhaps if you would send little Dido to me when she 
comes in. . . . She would help me to put away my things.” 

“Very well, I will.” Pamela closed the door behind her, 
glad to escape. “How can Darner like her? How can 
he ? There’s insincerity in every tone, in her very walk! 
She doesn’t even step honestly, she glides along. He’s a 
good enough judge of a man. How is it that he’s so 
hoodwinked by a woman. Is Dido right, I wonder ? Are 
all men like that? Can any woman take them in if she 
talks gently enough and makes eyes at them?” 

Puzzled, Pamela ran downstairs, hoping for a word 
alone with Langrishe before Dido came home. But in 
this she was disappointed, for there in the drawing-room, 
racket in hand, sat Dido. Perched on the arm of her 
father’s chair, she was giving him a crisp account of her 
afternoon. 

This time it was Pamela who felt de trop. All at once 
the sensation seized her that she was a stranger, the alien; 
that all the others, Heloise Waring, Darner, Dido, were all 
linked together by a common past in which she had no 


228 


STOLEN HONEY 


real part; that she stood outside the magic circle which 
enclosed them in its ring. It was a chilling sensation, 
even disintegrating while it lasted, but it was of short 
duration. 

Dido jumped up at her entry and came towards her. 

“Good old Mammy Pam? You’ve put our guest com¬ 
fortable behind the purdah till dinner-time! Come and 
rest yourself now. You’ve been working hard all day!” 

Pamela smiled, feeling warmed. 

“Oh, I’m not really tired. But, Dido, Mrs. Waring 
said she would like to see you when you came in. She 
wants you to help her to unpack.” 

Dido, her back safely towards her father, made a gri¬ 
mace. 

“I offered, but she wouldn’t let me. She preferred you 
naturally,” Pamela went on. 

“Unnaturally, if she only realized it. You’re twice as 
nice as I am, old thing.” 

“Come, Dido, run along. You ought to be delighted at 
a chance of being of use for once in your life,” said Lan- 
grishe, in what Dido called his “So far and no farther” 
tone. When he used it she knew that it meant business; 
that she could neither creep under it, walk round it, nor 
leap over it. It was a “No Thoroughfare” sort of tone, 
which completely blocked any evasion of its commands. 

“The sooner ’tis over the sooner to sleep,” quoted Dido 
resignedly. “Oh, Darner, Darner, thou little knowest 
what thou hast done in loosing this maidless female upon 
us!” 

“Run away and earn your dinner,” smiled Langrishe. 
“To-morrow you’ll have a young man to amuse you.” 

“Oh, he’s Pam’s property, not mine,” said Dido lightly 
as she went out of the room. 


PAMELA TRIES TO LAY A GHOST 229 

When she had gone Langrishe turned to his wife and 
pulled a chair near the fire for her. As she sank into it 
Pamela had a foolish regret that he had not taken her in 
his arms. It would have been sweet to rest for a little 
on his strength, to feel that nothing nor no one could 
come between them. Instead, he strode to the fireplace 
and stood there, looking down at her. 

“Well, Pam,” he said pleasantly, “was Heloise satisfied? 
Had she everything she wanted? Is she quite comfort¬ 
able?” 

“Oh, quite,” murmured Pamela flatly, leaning back into 
the shadow of her high-backed chair. “She said that we 
had every luxury here, and that it all seemed wonderful to 
a nomad like her.” 

“Yes. She's always been a great traveller,” mused 
Langrishe comfortably. “Still, one doesn’t like to think 
of a woman like that having to rough it.” 

“Why not? Why shouldn’t she rough it sometimes, 
like everyone else? It would do her a world of good.” 
Pamela was tired, and, consequently, a little cross. 

“Well, look at her type,” said Langrishe good-hu¬ 
mouredly. “She always looks as if she had just come out 
of a bandbox, floating veil and all! You can’t see that 
type really roughing it, can you ?” 

“No, I suppose not,” Pamela admitted, soothed a little 
by something in his tone. 

“Now, you, Pam—you’re different. You’d ride along 
by a man’s side, tramp beside him if necessary, camp 
with him in the wilds, and cook the meat he shot, without 
turning a hair.” 

“Would I ? But I’m only a country mouse, you see.” 
She could not help the tang in her voice. 

“Pam!” 


230 


STOLEN HONEY 


At the hurt in his tone, she sprang from her chair and 
was in his arms in an instant. 

“Forgive me, my dear one. I didn’t really mean to 
be cross. I am a little tired, but there’s no excuse for 
me. 

“Don’t you care to think that I look on you as my 
mate ?” 

“Of course I care. It means everything to me. Only 
I’m not—I’m not—we’re not in the wilds. I scarcely see 
anything of you. I don’t cook your dinner even. Other 
people are by your side. Your work absorbs you. So 
long as I’m there when you come in that’s all you want!” 

“Well, and isn’t that enough?” 

“It’s not. It isn’t half enough. I would love to be with 
you as you said. Tramping the world with you, and not 
having to bother about other people. Couldn’t we go 
somewhere, just you and I, and be really by ourselves 
for a little?” 

Even as she voiced the absurd plea, she knew how 
impossible it was. 

“Now you are being foolish, little girl,” said Langrishe 
tolerantly, putting a tender hand on her head that lay 
against him, and thinking that surely women were the 
most fantastically unreasonable beings in the world. 
“You know we couldn’t escape just now. Later on, when 
Dido goes to stay with Heloise, I might take a week off 
and we could run up to Luxor, Assuan, or perhaps camp 
out by Lake Karun in the Fayoum if you preferred it. 
How would you like that?” 

“I’d love it,” breathed Pamela on a deep sigh, wishing 
that they could flee then and there. Suddenly the desire 
seized her to put into words something which had long 
lain at the back of her mind. “Darner,” she whispered, 


PAMELA TRIES TO LAY A GHOST 231 

so low that he had to bend his head to hear her. “I 
wonder if you’d mind telling me something.” 

‘Til tell you anything in the world you care to ask, 
if I can.” 

“It's only this.” She hesitated for a moment, then 
went on. “Darner, what—what was Helena redly to 
you ?” 

The impalpable aura of the dead wife permeated the 
atmosphere around Pamela. Its spirit had to be exor¬ 
cized before she could resume normality. But she had 
chosen an unpropitious moment for her question. Lan- 
grishe was in no mood for sentimental reassurances. Sub¬ 
consciously, the presence of Heloise Waring had drawn 
the past about him like a veil, slightly dimming his present 
happiness. Pamela could not have mentioned his first 
wife to him moref inopportunely. 

She was sharply conscious of this the moment the words 
were uttered, for Langrishe moved a little away from 
her, and took her clasping hands from his shoulders. 

“Helena was my wife,” he returned gravely, holding 
her at arm’s length both physically and mentally. “She 
is dead now. We will not talk of her, please.” 

“I’m sorry I asked. Forgive me,” said Pamela faintly. 

“My dear girl, there is nothing to forgive. I think 
we’d better go and change now.” 

“Yes.” 

As Pamela went slowly out of the room, Langrishe had 
a momentary desire to go after her and kiss away that 
rather pathetic little droop from her mouth. She had 
gone before the impulse materialized, and instead he drew 
out the gun-metal cigarette case which had been her wed¬ 
ding-present to him, and lit a cigarette before he followed 
her. 


232 


STOLEN HONEY 


He stood there, musing as he smoked by the fire. He 
was happy, happy with a deeper happiness than had ever 
been his, and it was to Pamela he owed it. If the joys of 
pursuit, of capture, and of final triumph had been lacking 
in his courtship, his was now the full content of posses¬ 
sion. Pamela knew that he loved her, that he wanted 
her. What more did the girl desire? He could not be 
always saying so, could he? Those things belonged to 
the honeymoon rather than to the full, rich, contented life 
they were now leading*. He did not realize that no matter 
how sure a woman is of a man’s love she always craves 
to hear him put it into words. What he takes for granted 
she concludes does not exist, unless he frequently assures 
her of its vitality. 

Still, Langrishe was half-shamefacedly conscious that he 
had failed Pamela just now, untimely though her tenta¬ 
tive appeal had been. 

He threw his cigarette into the fire and ran upstairs, 
two steps at a time. 

Pamela looked round at his abrupt entry. She was 
doing her hair at the dressing-table, and her smooth young 
arms slipped whitely out of her blue silk sleeves. 

He came over to her, caught one uplifted arm and kissed 
the hollow inside the elbow. 

“Pam,” he whispered, with a boyish eagerness that 
thrilled her. “Helena—was a shattered dream. You are 
a dear, warm, human reality!” 

“Darner!” With a choked cry she put up her arms and 
drew him down to her. 

Her heart leaped beneath his hand. She felt that now 
she really tasted happiness for the first time, in spite of 
all that had gone before. 

Her fatigue was forgotten. For the rest of the evening 
she shone, subduing even Heloise Waring by her gaiety. 


PAMELA TRIES TO LAY A GHOST 233 


She and Dido tossed the ball of conversation lightly 
between them, while Darner laughed, and Mrs. Waring 
looked on with a smile which gradually froze from amuse¬ 
ment to contempt. 

“What it is to be young!” she murmured to Langrishe 
at last. “Dido dear, if you would be sweet enough to 
fetch me a wrap I should like to go out on the terrace for 
a little with your father. I want to see the Nile by moon¬ 
light, and to get a glimpse of that wonderful Barrage of 
which I hear so much.” 

“Righto!” cried Dido, jumping up, and returning in 
an incredibly short time with a beautiful ermine stole. 
“Let’s all go!” 

Pamela laid a restraining hand on her arm. “No. 
Stay here with me, and tell me all about your afternoon.” 

“You’ve heard every detail twice already,” the girl 
retorted. 

Pamela put a finger on her lip as Heloise Waring trailed 
towards the window, murmuring: “I want to hear all 
about your work, Darner. I think it is so thrilling. The 
idea of imposing the will of man, puny man, in the im¬ 
memorial Nile, harnessing his forces, gathering them up 
and storing them so that they may nourish the ancient 
land and make the desert blossom like the rose.” 

“Does he really like that sort of tosh?” cried Dido as 
the soft voice melted into silence. 

“I wonder?” said Pamela, her eyes star-bright. “I’m 
quite willing to let him have as much of it as ever he 
wants!” 

Dido looked at her for a moment, then chuckled. 

“Surfeit slays mair nor the sword,” she quoted. 
“You’ve the wisdom of the serpent, Mammy Pam.” 

“Between the pair of you I need it!” 

“Don’t couple me with Louisa, please.” 


234 


STOLEN HONEY 


“I didn’t. It was your father!” 

“Oh, I don’t mind that.” Dido’s face softened. “The 
dear old mole!” Then she startled Pamela by a sudden 
thrust. “Pam, what sort of a dossier have you?” 

“What on earth do you mean?” asked Pamela utterly 
puzzled. 

“A dossier is a police record of your past life.” 

“Why then, Dido-” 

“I mean, jokes apart, is there anything in your past life 
that you’d rather people didn’t know?” 

“Dido!” Pamela cried, with burning cheeks. 

“All right. I was sure there wasn’t. But our charm¬ 
ing Louisa put me through a perfect cross-examination 
this afternoon about you and your antecedents. Half her 
questions I couldn’t answer, so I invented-” 

“Oh, Dido!” 

“I never knew before that my name could be uttered in 
so many different keys!” said Dido flippantly. “You 
needn’t be uneasy, Mammy Pam. If people only knew, 
there would be a perfect queue for the past I gave you. 
I even said that your gardener refused to grow any flowers 
that weren’t white! I remembered noticing that as a 
child! I was convincingly circumstantial.” 

“Ah, now, Dido, what am I to believe?” said Pamela 
uneasily. “Is there one word of truth in what you’ve 
been saying?” 

“Two!” answered Dido promptly. “Our ‘little 
bridesmaid’ was asking searching questions about you, 
and I assured her that there was positively nothing I 
could give away—to your detriment, I mean! She begged 
of me to confide in her. ‘Stepmothers, no matter how 

well-meaning they may be, are always so-’ ” She 

dropped her voice to an exaggerated drawl. “Are you 
always so, Pam?” 



PAMELA TRIES TO LAY A GHOST 235 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” returned Pamela half amused, 
half uneasy. “I only know that Mrs. Waring has called 
me three most offensive names since she arrived to-day.” 

“Not really! How priceless! Do tell me what they 
were ?” 

“A domestic treasure, a country mouse, and now, well- 
meaning !” 

“The last shall be worst!” mis-quoted Dido, remember¬ 
ing as she said it where and by whom she had last heard 
the true version quoted. 

Even as she laughed and jested a sudden wild longing 
seized her, for the sound of de Marsac’s voice, the touch 
of his thin brown hand. She had still two days to wait 
for it; two long interminable days. From now until 
dinner-time on Christmas Day! Oh, why, why hadn’t 
Dad asked him to stay instead of Tubby Doran ? He was 
the lonelier of the two, if it came to that. He had only 
come to El-Armut once since that unforgettable hour in 
the desert. Was that her fault? Suppose it was. Well, 
a curiously tender smile curved her mobile lips. She 
would be kinder to him on Christmas Day. She would 
not evade him again. 

She slipped off the arm of the chair on which she had 
been perched, as Langrishe and Mrs. Waring came back 
through the French window. 

“I thought you girls were coming out?” he said. 

“We were afraid of the night air for our complexions,” 
said Dido impudently. 

“My dear saucy child!” smiled Heloise Waring, with 
an ineffectual pat at the cheek, which melted away at 
the approach of the smooth white hand. “You have no 
need to fear such things yet.” She turned to Pamela with 
the slightly patronizing air which she had adopted towards 
her ever since their first meeting; an attitude which 


236 


STOLEN HONEY 


always aroused the girl’s worst feelings. "I wonder if 
you realize your privileges, Pamela?” She smiled silkily. 
“Why, you are almost making history here. At least 
you are, Darner.” 

“Scarcely that. I am only the engineer in charge of 
another chap’s idea. I am the more or less mechanical 
means of seeing that it is properly carried out.” 

“Treason! I won’t have it,” cried Mrs. Waring, look¬ 
ing round the little group. “Pamela! Dido! How can 
you stand there and hear the dear man malign himself 
by calling himself mechanical ? As if it didn’t take brains, 
skill, knowledge of the world, the art of managing men, 
and a dozen other qualities to do what he’s doing!” 

“Come now, spare my blushes,” said Langrishe awk¬ 
wardly, while Dido murmured into Pamela’s ear: “I 
can’t quite decide whether our Louisa is more paralysing 
when she’s arch or when she’s merely sentimental.” 

Pamela, in an agony lest Mrs. Waring should overhear, 
suggested a move to bed. 


CHAPTER XXV 


AN EGYPTIAN CHRISTMAS 

No ice-bound land, no bare, frost-gemmed trees, no blind¬ 
ing, white fog to grip the throat and make the eyes smart, 
not even the moist green Yule that makes the fat kirk- 
yard ! 

Instead, a sky of deepest blue, in which kites poised and 
circled, screaming thinly, a shimmering stretch of water, 
crisped to sparkles by a light wind, purple-winged 
swallows hawking for flies, black and white kingfishers 
darting along by the mud banks of the Durrants’ garden, 
on which dragon-flies bask in brilliant sunlight, to rise, 
when startled, into the crystal-clear air with a tiny metallic 
clashing of wings. 

There had been a quaint little service in the Durrants* 
cool, square hall, where Jim Durrant had read the morn¬ 
ing service, Langrishe the lesson for the day, and the rest 
of the congregation joined in the chants and hymns with 
eyes which did not see very clearly, while more than one 
throat suddenly swelled with an irrepressible lump. 
Twinkle, the elder of the Durrant babies, had claimed the 
privilege of collecting, and went round with the bag so 
solemnly that Pamela felt an almost irresistible desire to 
snatch him up and kiss him. 

Heloise Waring, who had at first been prepared to smile 
at the little service—just like children playing at church! 
—changed her tone at the genuine note of simple sincerity, 
and sang. “O come, all ye faithful” as fervently as her 

237 


238 


STOLEN HONEY 


rather weedy voice would permit. It was all just too 
sweet for words, she declared afterwards to Mrs. Dur- 
rant. 

The Langrishe party had been invited to stay on to 
luncheon after the service, and Mrs. Durrant had arranged 
a tennis tournament for the afternoon, in which the real 
prizes were the inadequate supply of women partners. 

“We got the judge to draw, knowing that our local 
representative of law and order should be above suspicion,” 
said Jim Durrant, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. 

“It was putting a severe strain on my probity/’ Judge 
Weir declared. “I felt that in recompense the Fates 
should have given me Mrs. Langrishe for a partner, but, 
alas, they didn’t!” 

“Who am I to have ?” asked Pamela eagerly. 

“The undeserving Doran.” 

There was a chorus of voices. 

“Good old Tubby!” 

“Some people have all the luck!” 

“Erin go bragh!” 

“Cheerio!” 

“Poor Mrs. Langrishe!” 

Then, very clearly, after the subsidence of noise: 

“My dear Pamela, what an extraordinary coincidence!” 
from Heloise Waring. 

“It is rather funny—the two wild Irish being drawn- 
together,” Pamela said laughing. “Tim and I have 
often played together before now.” 

“Yes, indeed,” returned Mrs. Waring sweetly. “And 
more games than tennis, too/’ 

“Do you play, Mrs. Waring?” asked Monica Durrant, 
sensing a slight tension. 

“Alas, no. I sprained my wrist some years ago, which 
has prevented me from playing any sort of game since.” 


AN EGYPTIAN CHRISTMAS 


239 

“Except your own particular one,” murmured Dido in 
Pamela's ear. 

Pamela drew her swiftly aside. 

“Dido, that sort of thing simply isn't done. You must 
not make remarks about Mrs. Waring before her. I am 
in constant agony for fear she will overhear.” 

“Let her,” said Dido flippantly. Then, seeing that 
Pamela's distress was genuine, she went on. “Look here, 
Mammy Pam, if I don’t have some little outlet I shall 
burst. Better to let me fizzle like that in your ear than go 
off with one concentrated bang! Now isn't it? Espe¬ 
cially as our Louisa is the least bit deaf.” 

“I suppose so, but see that it is in my ear and not in 
hers.” 

“You lamb, I wonder if you realize how boring you 
are ? I want to know who has drawn me.” She ran back 
to the group surrounding Judge Weir, and asked in her 
clearest tones: 

“Do tell me, Judge, who is my fate?” 

Judge Weir turned towards her with mock solemnity 
and answered, as -if he were delivering a judgment: 

“Your fate, Miss Dido, is M. Raoul de Marsac!” 

In the universal chorus of groans, Dido's little gasp and 
quickly-drawn breath went unnoticed, as did the paling 
of her bitten lip. 

“Where is the wretch?” asked Judge Weir, looking 
round. “Why doesn’t he come forward to claim his 
prize? Is it possible that he is so lost to all sense of 
decency as not to have arrived yet? De Marsac, stand 
forth! Why, here’s the fellow only just coming down 
from the house!” 

Dido's heart-beats quickened painfully as the slight, 
athletic-looking figure came across the garden towards 
them. She could have picked him out among a thousand 


240 


STOLEN HONEY 


at any distance, she thought. He was different from the 
other men, more distinguished, of finer, cleaner line. She 
cast a disparaging glance at Doran's loosely-built lan¬ 
kiness. 

“How could I ever even have imagined that I cared for 
him?" she thought, with a contempt for past folly which 
would have wounded the other participant in it to the 
core could he have read her flickering look. 

“Happy Christmas, everybody," called de Marsac, as 
he approached. “What is the excitement, M. le Juge?” 

“The excitement is your draw for the tennis tourna¬ 
ment. The god, whose temple you are excavating, has 
favoured you and given you Miss Dido Langrishe as a 
partner. Offer him a special libation to-morrow, young 
man." 

“His libation shall be poured from a cup of gold," said 
de Marsac, with a note in his voice that thrilled Dido. 

It took all that she possessed of courage and self-con¬ 
trol to meet his eyes and put her hand in his. 

“So—you are my fate?" 

“Or you are mine." 

The words on the surface meant no more than those 
which any of the other prospective partners had ex¬ 
changed, but underneath, they pulsed and throbbed with 
a meaning, realized only by the two who uttered them. 
For an instant Dido and de Marsac seemed to stand alone, 
the sole real people in the world of shadows, conscious of 
each other in every fibre, thrilled by the knowledge of 
each other’s nearness. 

At the moment, the phase antagonistic seemed to have 
passed away, to be succeeded by the phase conciliatory. 
Subconsciously the season of peace on earth swayed them. 
They had laid down their weapons. Each was desirous 
only of pleasing the other. 


AN EGYPTIAN CHRISTMAS 


241 


“We should combine well, mademoiselle.” 

“I have not played tennis with you yet, monsieur.” 

“What does that matter? We play together now. 
You are swift, irresistible as fire, I, a rock which the fire 
cannot harm.” 

It was a distinct challenge. She caught it up. “Even 
rocks can be broken, monsieur.” 

“And fire caught and tamed.” His dark eyes met 
and held hers until she turned them away. 

“Why do we quarrel like this when we meet?” she 
asked softly. 

“It is the untameable, the primitive in each that waits 
for it% master,” de Marsac answered, throwing back his 
head. “Your flame laps me round, but it cannot devour 
me. My rock menaces you, but cannot, at the moment, 
extinguish you.” 

Dido laughed, and de Marsac felt as if she had sud¬ 
denly leaped away from his tangible hold. “I don’t believe 
that you are a rock after all. I think you are just an ex¬ 
cellent imitation made of painted wood, and that you 
are desperately afraid of the fire which you pretend to 
defy.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” he murmured. “It is a 
fierce little flame when it is angry.” 

“Has it ever burned you?” 

“Scarcely burned, scorched, perhaps,” he answered. 
“But even to be scorched hurts a little.” 

“Does it? I’m sorry,” said Dido, in a tone which no 
one else had ever heard from her. Then, as if repenting 
of her momentary softening: “We had better get back 
to the others. They will be waiting for us.” 

De Marsac looked at the group by the tennis-court. 

“No! they do not want us yet. They have put on two 
other couples to play. Come with me down to the path 


242 


STOLEN HONEY 


by the river for a moment. I have something to say to 
you.” 

“What is it?” asked Dido eagerly. 

A tangled hedge of scarlet-flowered hibiscus hid them 
from the others. Dido looked up into de Marsac’s face 
as she walked by his side along the beaten mud path. She 
was all in white to-day, except for the amber chain which 
had been her father’s Christmas box, the amber ribbon 
round her Panama hat, and her aureole of golden hair. 

Suddenly de Marsac stopped and put out a lean brown 
hand which trembled slightly as it touched the bright 
swirl. 

“This is no saint’s nimbus,” he said, a trifle unsteadily. 
“It is the flaming tip of a snow-white wand.” 

“That’s pretty,” cried Dido childishly. 

For a moment her real youthfulness peeped out from 
behind the mask of sophistication which usually hid it. 
De Marsac almost looked to see her clap her hands. Then 
a wild impulse seized him to snatch her up in his arms, 
run into the desert with her, shake her, beat her, perhaps, 
but kiss her until the elf in her turned into a warm yield¬ 
ing woman. 

Instead, he took his desirous hand from the silky mop 
and, plunging it into his pocket, drew out a little leather 
case. 

“A trifling gift from your other lover,” he said as lightly 
as he could. 

“My other lover?” she echoed. 

He pressed the lid of the case. It sprang open to dis¬ 
close the emblem of Re, the sun god, a winged sun-disc 
with the royal serpent curled round it. The wings were 
of fine enamel in yellow orange and the beautiful Egyptian 
red. The sun itself, clasped by a golden serpent, was 
represented by a round, straw-coloured topaz. 


AN EGYPTIAN CHRISTMAS 


243 


“Re sends you this by the hand of his unworthy ambas¬ 
sador,” he said in the same tone. “Will you honour 
him—and me—by accepting it, mademoiselle?” 

Dido stood very still, the little box clasped in her hands, 
and wonderful light in her great dark eyes. 

“You thought of this? You had it made for me?” 

De Marsac bent his head. Dido saw nothing theatrical 
in the gesture. She was heart and soul now in the game 
that they were playing. In any other man she would have 
dubbed the metaphorical thrust and parry, this play of 
simfle and equivoque “absolute tosh,” but with de Marsac 
life took on another colour and meaning; and interpreta¬ 
tion tinged with a magic and a glamour such as she had 
never known before. 

“Tell Re to be careful/ she continued, with a little 
unsteady laugh. “Sometimes an ambassador finds more 
favour in the eyes of-” 

“Dido! Dido! Where are you? We’re waiting for 
you,” Pamela’s voice called just behind the hedge. 

There was a flicker of white skirt, and she appeared 
in an opening. The world of reality closed down upon 
the two once more. For the rest of the day, until the 
triumphant close of the tournament, in which Dido and de 
Marsac proved the victors, they had not a word apart. 

Then after the final game in the failing light, which 
won them their hard fought fight, de Marsac turned 
triumphantly to his partner. 

“Together we are invincible, p’tite primitive,” he 
murmured. 

“Isn’t the victory the proof of our civilization?” she 
retorted, but her eyes said that from which her lips 
refrained. 

Tiny beads, as of dew, stood on her little provocative 
nose and forehead. Her cheeks were flushed and an un- 


244 


STOLEN HONEY 


wonted pink. Her hair lay in damp rings about her face. 
As he looked at her admiringly, an odd commendation 
sprang to his mind. 

“Mon dieu,” he thought, “she is the only girl I have 
ever seen who perspired prettily !” 

The other women looked hot and tired, even in the 
becomingly shaded light of Mrs. Durrant’s drawing¬ 
room; all save Heloise Waring, who was cool and fair as 
usual, but inwardly rather bored. 

Pamela made an early move, to which she responded 
with alacrity. 

“Rest and a tub, before the evening’s festivities,” she 
suggested. “We really must be going.” 

“And remember,” warned Langrishe, “you are all 
to come early and stay late!” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


HELOISE CHANGES HER TACTICS 

Even the old become young at a Christmas Day dinner¬ 
party; and when its most senior member is but forty- 
two, and a youthful-spirited forty-two at that, the fun 
may well wax fast and furious. 

There were no tete-a-tetes among the young people 
that night at the house on the river-bank. The after- 
dinner amusements merged from singing to round games, 
from games to cock-fighting, from cock-fighting to various 
tricks and catches until every side ached and every throat 
was hoarse with laughter. 

Even Doran and de Marsac seemed momentarily to 
have called a truce in their subconscious warfare. Dido 
held a hand of each in one of the absurd games they 
played, and wondered idly why one touch should send 
fiery thrills up her arm while the other warm grip left her 
cold and pulseless. 

She wore her sun-disc brooch, and told everyone that 
it was a gift from the great god Re himself. 

‘‘Dear little Dido is quite fey to-night,” murmured 
Heloise Waring once in Langrishe's ear. 

“Don't say that,” he returned quite sharply. “Don't 
you know that that expression is used only of a person 
under the shadow of a sudden or violent death?” 

“My dear Darner!” She looked at him with pitying 
amusement. “You surely don't mean to say that you 
are superstitious?” 


245 


246 


STOLEN HONEY 


He glanced round to see that Pamela had not heard, 
as he answered decisively: “Certainly not. But that 
expression—and of Dido-” 

“Ah, you are wrapped up in the child, and no wonder! 
She is such a dainty brilliant little creature/’ smiled 
Mrs. Waring, who could afford to praise whole-heartedly 
anyone of such an absolutely different type from hers. 
Then, as she sent a quiet look round the romping circle 
from which she and Langrishe had been weeded out in 
their turn, the memory of the years with which she had 
once credited Pamela seemed suddenly to have become 
erased from her mind, for she said with a puzzled frown 
and deprecating smile: “Your Pamela, too, looks a mere 
child. I wonder you ventured, dear Darner. There’s 
such a big gap, isn’t there ?” 

Langrishe, looking at Pamela’s hot cheeks and starry 
eyes answered absently: “Yes, she does look well to¬ 
night, doesn’t she?” 

“Very well, quite charming,” returned Mrs. Waring 
on a slightly sharpened note. “But absurdly young to 
be the mistress of an establishment like this.” 

Langrishe smiled. 

“Doesn’t she do it jolly well, though? Of course, she 
and her mother practically ran Carrigrennan-” 

“How wonderful of them! And it was there that 
poor young Doran used to run in and out all day, just 
as he does here.” 

“Why poor young Doran?” asked Langrishe, ignoring 
the rest of the sentence. 

“He’s very susceptible, isn’t he ?” 

“Is he? How do you know? Did he try to make 
love to you, Heloise ?” 

Mrs. Waring looked down and then up. Her eyelashes 
were very effective against the fairness of her skin. 




HELOISE CHANGES HER TACTICS 247 

“Poor foolish boy, I did mother him a little just at 
first, but, of course, he did not want me once your Pamela 
appeared on the scene. There was much too close a bond 
between them for any newer friendship to-” 

“Yes, they were practically brought up together. 
Doran himself told me that in those old days Pamela was 
more than a sister to him.” 

Mrs. Waring lifted amused brows. 

“I must say that I can’t altogether believe in girls who 
are more than sisters to young men to whom they are 
not related. I—don’t misunderstand me, dear old friend, 
when I say that if I were you I shouldn’t encourage these 
—these less than brothers-” 

“You’re wanted now, you two,” Dido danced up 
to them. 

“We’re going to play a game called ‘musical instru¬ 
ments.’ You must all sit in a circle and I’ll explain.” 

Afterwards, when the last guest had gone, and Lan- 
grishe was lighting Mrs. Waring’s candle for her in the 
hall, he said suddenly: “There’s not such a gap between 
Pamela and me, after all, Heloise. She’s twenty-eight—” 

“Really? She looked about eighteen to-night.” 

“And I’m only forty-two! Just fourteen years. And 
we’re very near in spirit.” 

“Ah, it’s the spirit that really matters,” murmured 
Mrs. Waring, as she went softly to the foot of the stairs. 

She turned there to send him a tenderly pitying, sweetly 
comprehending look. The candle-light shone upwards on 
her face, detaching its calm fairness from the dusky back¬ 
ground of the staircase. 

“It is the spiritual contact which really counts,” she 
repeated. “The call of youth to youth is only of the 
blood, of course, merely physical. Good-night, dear 
Darner. It has been a wonderful Christmas.” 



248 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Good-night, Heloise,” he answered slowly, thinking 
how sweet she looked as she stood there with her softly 
falling draperies of midnight blue, and her strangely wist¬ 
ful expression as she spoke of the spiritual nearness which 
was all that mattered. 

But it was when he suddenly awoke later on in the night 
that her words returned like teasing gnats to sting him. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE CALL OF YOUTH 

The call of youth to youth! What on earth did she 
mean? More than sister. Less than brother—unwise 
encouragement. Was it just—talk, or was she really 
hinting at anything? He could not stand that. 

With all the directness of a naturally frank and sincere 
nature, Langrishe hated hints and innuendoes. He fell 
asleep again on a resolution to tackle Heloise next day 
and find out what she really meant. Dido, too. He was 
not going to let her accept presents of jewellery without 

knowing from whom they came—women were really- 

Sleep banished thought. 

His opportunity with Dido came first. Work was off 
for Boxing Day, and they were to have a picnic luncheon 
at the Barrage and a scratch Gymkhana afterwards. 

Breakfast was later than usual, but Mrs. Waring had 
not yet appeared when Pamela and Doran went out on 
the terrace to practice putting. Dido was following them 
when Langrishe stopped her. 

“Look here, little girl, who gave you that brooch?” 
he asked without preamble. 

Dido caught her breath. She felt instinctively that her 
father would not approve of the sun-god’s offering, but 
she had no intention of giving up her treasure. 

“Didn’t I tell you yesterday that it was the mighty 
Re?” 

“Come! No nonsense, Dido. I mean, really?” 

249 


250 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Oh, if you mean really, it was M. de Marsac.” 

“De Marsac ?” Langrishe’s tone was curt. “Why 
did he give it to you?” 

“Oh, just as a little memento of our day at the ex¬ 
cavations/’ answered Dido airily, though her breath 
quickened apprehensively. “He had it especially made 
for me. Wasn’t it sweet of him?” 

“I don’t like you to take presents of jewellery from 
men, little daughter.” 

“But this isn’t exactly a present of jewellery, big father. 
It’s just a little memento of my first glimpse of the desert.” 

“I don’t like it, all the same. I have a good mind to 
make you give the thing back to de Marsac at once.” 

Dido slipped a coaxing hand through his arm and 
rubbed her head against his coat-sleeve. 

“You’d have a very bad mind if you did a thing like 
that, Dad,” she murmured, in her most wheedling tones. 
“It would hurt poor M. de Marsac very much if we 
were so rude as to return his little gift.” 

Langrishe hesitated, feeling, for once, rather unable 
to cope with the situation. He did not want to make 
too much of the episode, nor did he desire altogether to 
conceal his disapproval. In spite of what Pamela had 
said, he had a deeply rooted belief in the virginal, white- 
paper minds of young girls. He did not wish to inscribe 
anything undesirable on Dido’s snowy sheet, or to instil 
ideas about men and their intentions that might not be 
already there. 

At last he spoke, reluctantly, as if the words were forced 
from him. “De Marsac didn’t mean anything by giving 
you this, child?” 

Dido flashed great eyes at him, reading him like an open 
book. “Mean anything? Of course he did, dad. He 
meant to show his appreciation of your hospitality by 


THE CALL OF YOUTH 


251 


giving me this charming little memento of my silly joke 
about the sun-god. It all began in fun, really. I think 
it would be making too much of it to give the brooch back 

to him, as if it were- He might think that we thought 

—that—oh, Dad, it wouldn’t do at all!” 

“N—no,. Perhaps it wouldn’t,” admitted Langrishe 
musingly. 

“It isn’t even as if he were English,” Dido pursued, 
following up her advantage. “Frenchmen probably see 
things from a different point of view from ours. 
They- 

“Very well. That’s enough about it. But it must 
be the last, remember. Flowers, books or sweets, if you 
like, but I won’t have anything more.” 

“You needn’t, Dad dear. I promise.” 

Dido jumped up and kissed him, alight with joy at 
her success. She meant what she said, too. She would 
not take presents of which her father did not approve, so 
long as she might keep her precious sun-disc. She made 
a sort of bargain with her conscience about it. 

Langrishe, not completely satisfied, patted her shoulder. 

“Then that’s that. Now run out on the terrace and 
tell Pam I want her,.” 

Dido, nothing loth, ran off to give the message. 

Pamela pressed her putter into the girl’s hand before 
she went back to the house. 

“Tim has beaten me nine times out of ten. See if you 
can give him a licking now.” 

Dido made a shot at the depression in the ground at 
which they were aiming and sent her ball several yards 
beyond it. 

“Bad beginning,” she exclaimed, as she went to 
retrieve it. 

Doran followed her. 



252 


STOLEN HONEY 


“I don’t want any more of this. Can you sit on the 
wall and talk to me a bit?” 

“With pleasure. Have you got a cigarette? I left 
my case inside.” Dido perched herself on the parapet 
and swung a nonchalant foot to and fro. 

Doran pulled out his case and handed it to her. Then 
he said in a low tone: “Curly, are you never going to 
speak to me again?” 

“Don’t call me that,” said Dido sharply. “I won’t 
have it. Curly, and all that she represents, died and was 
buried long ago.” 

“Not as far as I am concerned.” 

“Tubby, we can’t have any resurrections in this affair.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Didn’t we agree that our stolen fruit episode must be 
forgotten?” she asked under her breath. 

“I can never forget it.” 

“But you must. Curly is dead, as I told you. It is 
only with Dido that you have to do in the future.” 

“But Dido won’t let me come near her. She never 
even speaks to me,” Doran complained. 

“I’m speaking to you now. What do you want me 
to say?” 

“Can’t you be a little kinder?” 

“No, Tubby,” answered the girl inexorably. “If I 
were kinder you might only misunderstand.” 

Doran caught the hand that was playing with his 
cigarette-case and held it for a moment in a fierce grip. 

“Misunderstand? Do you mean to say that you have 
forgotten what we once were to each other?” 

Dido looked full at him with a candour that knew no 
softening. “I haven’t forgotten, but it seems absolutely 
incredible to me now.” 


THE CALL OF YOUTH 


253 

“Our—our midsummer dream means nothing to you, 
then ?” 

“Less than nothing.” Her cool detached words fell 
upon his passion like drops of ice. 

He let her hand go and turned away, looking down at 
the water that flowed beneath them with eyes that saw 
only a lost dream, a vanished vision in its muddy depths. 

“Tubby, why do you care like that?” she cried. “I 
wish you didn’t.” 

“I am not as light as you,” he thrust at her. “I—can’t 
stop caring all at once just because you’ve done so. I 
wish to God I could! This means another man. De 
Marsac, I suppose. A mincing Frenchman! Good 
God!” 

Dido’s eyes blazed. She slipped off the parapet and 
faced him, quivering with anger. 

“This means that I have finished with you, Stuart 
Doran. You might at least remember that you are a 
gentleman, and that you are staying in my father’s house.” 

Doran looked at her, his freckled face acutely miserable. 
“I don’t forget that fact for an instant. I can’t. You 
may not believe me when I tell you that sometimes his 
bread and salt almost choke me. He’s too straight a man, 
too fine a man to deceive.” He took a step forward and 
looked at her with a new resolution. “Look here, Dido, 
can’t we start fair now? You can’t have meant that 
you want to turn me down absolutely. Give me another 
chance, so that I can honestly go to your father and face 
him, man to man. I’m not going so badly even now. 
If you care, you wouldn’t mind roughing it for a bit, 
would you? I’d work my fingers to the bone for you, 
Dido!” Poignant appeal rang in his tone. 

Dido looked at him very gravely and shook her head. 
“If I cared for you I’d willingly walk barefoot through 


254 


STOLEN HONEY 


the world by your side,” she answered slowly. “But I 
don’t Tubby. I don’t, and that’s the pity of it.” 

"Then you really meant what you said just now?” he 
asked hoarsely. 

"Every word of it.” She looked at him inexorably. 
"You can’t pretend that I’ve deceived you. I was a 
young idiot, I know, but—I was absolutely straight with 
you when we parted. Didn’t I tell you then that it was 
all over?” 

"You did. It hurt you to say it, though.” 

"Yes,” she admitted. "It hurt then. It doesn’t now. 
It is all over, and the sooner you recognize the fact the 
better.” 

"I suppose so,” he answered dully. "You do hit 
straight from the shoulder, Dido.” 

"You didn’t think I’d scratch, did you?” Dido asked 
indignantly. 

"I dunno. Women do, sometimes.” He looked at her 
in a kind of numb amazement. "What would de Marsac 
think of the Curly episode, I wonder?” he asked slowly. 

Dido looked at him with infinite scorn. 

"Tell him.” she suggested. "Tell everyone in El- 
Armut if you’re that sort of a cad!” 

Doran paled and his eyes grew very bright. 

"You are a little beast!” he said under his breath. 
"I don’t know why I care for you as I do.” 

"The sooner you stop the better pleased I shall be. 
Here, let’s have no more of this idiotic squabbling. Pull 
yourself together, Tubby. Heloise is coming across the 
terrace.” 

Mrs. Waring glided a moment later up to two bored 
young people who were throwing stones and morsels of 
cement at a cork floating by on the water. 

"Good morning, children. You don’t look as if you 


THE CALL OF YOUTH 


255 


were enjoyng yourselves,” she said pleasantly, putting 
up her parasol to shield her complexion from the sun. 

“We’re not,” Dido confessed. “Tubby is frightfully 
bored because Pam has gone in and left me to entertain 
him.” 

“That’s a tribute to Pamela’s powers of attraction, but 
rather a slight to yours, Dido dear. If I were you, Mr. 
Doran, I should not show my boredom quite so plainly.” 

“Wouldn’t you?” asked Doran with inward rage. 

“No.” She lowered her voice a little. “I am not 
joking, Mr. Doran. If you wear your heart on your 
sleeve so very openly people will begin to talk.” 

“Let them,” said Doran, turning away and walking 
towards the house. 

“Decidedly a farouche young man, my Dido. I wonder 
what dear Pamela sees in him?” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


HELOISE SAYS HER SAY 

It was not until after the homeward journey from the 
Barrage that Langrishe had an opportunity of putting 
his second intention into action. 

The party came and went on trollies, which were pro¬ 
pelled by Arabs on miniature railway-lines along the river- 
bank to where the Barrage works began. 

Langrishe and Heloise Waring were on the first of the 
return trollies. When they alighted Langrishe looked 
around for the rest of the party, but they were nowhere 
in sight. 

“Something must have happened to delay them,” he 
said. “We won’t wait. Let us stroll slowly home¬ 
wards. They’ll probably overtake 'us.” 

“Does it matter if they do not?” asked Mrs. Waring, 
opening her parasol and holding it over her shoulder 
not because the fierceness of the swiftly declining sun 
called for any such shield, but because it made a becoming 
background for her creamy-white skin, and beautifully 
waved hair. “With such a crowd of gay young people 
we maturer ones scarcely ever get a chance of a quiet 
talk” 

“As it happens, that is just what I want to have with 
you, Heloise.” 

“Yes?” Her pulses quickened slightly. Was her 
dream coming true? Was he going to turn to her for 
sympathy, for comprehension, having found his gauche 
256 


HELOISE SAYS HER SAY 


257 


young wife inadequate? Ah, the pity of it! Her heart 
swelled with the sympathy which she was ready to shower 
upon him. 

Langrishe, as usual, went straight to the point. 

“You said something—insinuated something last night 
which I didn’t quite understand, Heloise. ,, 

“I?” She opened her rain-grey eyes in astonishment. 
“My dear Darner, I never insinuated anything. I am 
almost too blunt sometimes, I fear. As you ought to 
know by this time, I have a perfect passion for the truth.” 

“So have I. I could never again trust anyone whom 
I once found out in a lie.” 

“Isn’t that perhaps just a little bit—drastic?” 

“Perhaps. But that’s how I feel about such things.” 
He stopped abruptly. 

“What did you think I insinuated, dear old friend? 
Surely, of all people in the world, you know that I would 
speak openly to you,” Heloise said. 

“I should hope so. You were saying something about 
young Doran.” He paused again. The thing was more 
difficult to put into words, now that he faced it in broad 
daylight. 

“About Mr. Doran?” 

Heloise thrilled to the situation. Darner could not 
blame her if he forced the truth from her. It would be 
cruel to leave him in his fool’s paradise any longer than 
was necessary. People would soon begin to talk about 
the young man’s patient infatuation for Pamela, if they 
were not doing so already. Rumours would inevitably 
reach Langrishe’s ears sooner or later, and then he might 
in justice ask why she, his old friend, had not warned 
him. There are circumstances in which blindness may 
be more of a crime than folly. Surely this was one of 
them. To condone a crime is to participate therein. 


258 


STOLEN HONEY 


She, Heloise Waring, had never shirked what she knew to 
be her duty. She was not going to begin to do so now. 

She hesitated for a moment before she spoke. 

‘‘Well, Darner, my dear, Mr. Doran is a fellow-guest 
in your house. It is difficult for me to say anything 
which- V 

“Do you know anything against him? 1 ” Langrishe 
cut across her hesitations. 

“I—I have heard of an episode in his career-” 

“Does it make him unfit to associate with my wife 
and daughter?” 

“Well, knowing the laxity of men in general, I 
scarcely-” 

“I am not lax where they are concerned,” answered 
Langrishe curtly. “Please tell me what you know about 
this—episode, Heloise.” 

“Very little,” she conceded, with a sense of relief. 
Probably there was really nothing in it. A mere holiday 
affair, week or a week-end with a pretty girl at a Cornish 
village.” 

“Were they living together openly?” asked Langrishe. 

“I know no details. They were obviously lovers, 
though, my informant told me.” 

“Who was your informant?” 

“Nobody you know. A London friend who was seeing* 
me off at Victoria and recognized Mr. Doran as the youth 
of the affair. Don’t look so black, Darner dear. He 
surely is not the only young man of your acquaintance 
who has had a holiday under the rose like that.” 

“No—but—are you sure that it wasn’t some woman 
who had got hold of him and was making a fool of the 
lad?” 

Heloise regretfully shook her head. “I’m afraid not. 
My informant said the girl was quite young and quite 


HELOISE SAYS HER SAY 


259 


pretty. She looked a lady, too, she said, not-” 

Langrishe frowned. The story had a savour about it 
which he did not like. He had grown quite attached to 
Doran. He had believed him to be clean and straight as 
himself. It was rather a jar to find that he had so recently 
played a part in an evidently illicit love-affair. He did 
not like the thought of his being so closely associated 
with Pamela and Dido after that, not that he would— 
that couldn't have been what he was confiding in Pam 
that evening in the firelight? No, those weren’t the 
sort of affairs about which one told one’s women¬ 
folk. 

"Darner, I thought you were a man of the world,” Mrs. 
Waring said playfully, as he strode along by her side, 
his eyes shining fiercely under his tufted brows. “You 
make too much of this.” 

They had reached the garden, and, by common consent, 
turned their steps to the terrace walk by the river. 

“I am a man of the world, I hope. But it’s on account 
of Pam and Dido,” he paused uncomfortably. 

“Perhaps Pamela knows something about this affair,” 
suggested Mrs. Waring pleasantly. 

“Why should Pam know anything about it?” 

“She’s such an old friend of Mr. Doran’s. Besides, 
she was in Cornwall last summer. She told me so herself. 
She might possibly have run across him there. If you are 
so worried about it why not ask her if she could throw 
any light on the subject?” Mrs. Waring’s heart was 
beating a little faster than usual, though she had quite 
persuaded herself that she was only fulfilling a rather 
disagreeable duty. 

“The idea is absurd,” said Langrishe bluntly. 

Mrs. Waring shifted her parasol slightly before she 
asked, with a tender poignance: 


26 o 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Damer, dear old friend, are you really blind, or are 
you only pretending to be ?” 

Langrishe wheeled round to face her. 

“In God’s name what are you driving at?” he cried, 
stung to sudden exasperation. 

Once the words were spoken she would have given any¬ 
thing to recall them, but having left her lips they went 
echoing down the void throughout eternity, planting their 
barb as they went. 

“I only mean, is it possible that you haven’t seen 
what is patent to everybody?” she answered uncomfort¬ 
ably. 

“Please explain yourself, Heloise. What have I over¬ 
looked that is so patent to everybody ?” 

“Can’t you guess? Why do you pain me by making 
me say such things?” she cried. 

“Why do you madden me by beating about the bush 
like this?” he retorted. “I feel as if I were being muffled 
in a fog of evasions. Can’t you speak out ?” 

She bent her head as to his will. 

“Very well, if you will have it so, but remember it 
was you who asked for it. Have you never noticed that 
poor young Doran is madly in love with Pamela?” 

“In love with Pamela? Tosh!” cried Langrishe, in 
angry incredulity. 

“My poor Damer, it is not tosh, it is only too true.” 

“I don’t believe a word of it. Why, he and Pam-” 

“Please spare me the platitude about their being like 
brother and sister. I have heard that sort of thing until I 
am really tired of it.” 

“Then this is what you were trying to hint last night ?” 
said Langrishe slowly. 

“Yes. I wanted to give you a word of friendly warn¬ 
ing not to encourage the young man to come here too 


HELOISE SAYS HER SAY 


261 


much. I did not mean to put it into such crude words as 
you have forced me to do.” 

“Crude words are best fitted for crude things,” said 
Langrishe slowly. “You tell me that Doran is in love 
with Pamela. Will you please say what grounds you 
have for making such a statement ?” 

“You—you press me very hard, Damer. Won’t a 
hint suffice you?” 

“No!” The monosyllable cracked like a pistol-shot. 
“The truth, please, as you’re such a stickler for it, 
Heloise.” 

“My one desire is to save you pain, dear Damer.” 

His eyebrows met. 

“Save me pain?” he echoed. “How can it cause me 
pain to hear that the poor chap is in love with Pamela? 
It may cause him pain, but not rne. Why, I admire his 
taste! I’m in love with Pamela myself?” 

Mrs. Waring gasped almost as if he had struck her. 
What a savage he was! Nearly as farouche as poor Tim 
Doran himself! So unappreciative of all the delicate 
nuances of the friendship she offered him. Well, he 
should have thrust for thrust. Her vision vanished; she 
would not spare him now. 

With a pale smile she reminded him. 

“My poor friend, have you forgotten the call of youth 
to youth? You were husband and father when Pamela 
was in the schoolroom. I have not one word to say 
against the dear girl herself. She tries to do her duty 
nobly, but—I have eyes in my head, Damer. I saw their 
parting on the Syria. I saw the poor child’s confusion 
at the mere mention of his name. I see every moment 
their evident absorption in each other, and I beg you, 
Damer, as one of your oldest friends, not to throw them 
so constantly together.” 


262 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Are you trying to tell me now that Pamela is in 
love with Doran?” asked Langrishe, with an ominous 
quietness. 

Heloise Waring hesitated. 

“I am not trying to tell you anything. I merely give 
you a word of warning. You can take it for what it’s 
worth.” 

“I do take it for what it’s worth,” said Langrishe very 
low. “You mean kindly, no doubt, Heloise, but if you 
think that Pam is in love with Doran, all I can say is that 
it’s a damned lie!” 

“It’s just like you to think so,” murmured Mrs. 
Waring, with a gentle disregard for his violent language. 
“I don’t want to disenchant you, my dear. I would merely 
suggest that you keep your eyes open, and cast back in 
your memory to see if you can recall anything that bears 
out what I say. Ah, here are the others!” 

Pamela, followed by Doran, came quickly through the 
French window of the drawing-room, and crossed the 
terrace towards them. 

To the two who scrutinized them closely their faces 
looked pale and drawn. 

“Instant confirmation of what I was saying,” thought 
Mrs. Waring, with a little thrill of triumph. 

Pamela went straight up to her husband. 

“I’m sure you were wondering what was keeping us? 
Were you anxious?” 

“No. I knew you were in good hands!” His words 
were toneless, his eyes watchful. “Where’s Dido?” 

“She’s gone up to her room. We had an adventure, 
Darner. Dido very nearly trod on a snake on the em¬ 
bankment. Only M. de Marsac pulled it away -in time, 
or she would have done so. She’s all right, my dear. 
She wasn’t bitten. Poor M. de Marsac was, though.” 


HELOISE SAYS HER SAY 263 

“Was it a harmless variety ?’’ asked Langrishe 
quickly. 

“No, it wasn't, sir," put in Doran. “It was a poison¬ 
ous brute." 

“Where is de Marsac? What did they do?" 

“Marshall, who knows a lot about such bites, cauterized 
it at once, and sent for a native doctor Johnnie hot-foot. 
I thought it better to bring the girls home. I'm going 
over again and see how he is.” 

“I’ll go with you," said Langrishe promptly, relieved 
at the thought of action. “He probably saved the little 
girl’s life. I must thank him at once, and if there’s any 
nursing to be done, he must come here." 

“He can have my room," said Doran quickly. 

“Why, you can’t get back to Tahta to-night, man." 

“No, but I’m sure the Durrants would give me a shake- 
down for the night." 

“Oh, nonsense," said Langrishe hospitably. “We can’t 
have you running off like that." 

“I told the trolley boys to wait." 

“Good. We’ll be off then." 

“Don’t be long, Darner. We shall be anxious to 
know about M. de Marsac. If you bring him back with 
you I can have a bed put up in your dressing-room for 
Tim." 

Langrishe looked at her keenly. How could anyone 
read anything in that dear face but truth and a crystal 
sincerity? Ignoring Heloise Waring, he stopped to kiss 
her before he went. 

“Run in and rest, dear. You look as if you had got 
a fright. If de Marsac is allowed to come I’ll bring him 
back at once." 

“It was poor Dido who got the worst fright," said 
Pamela. “I must go to her.” 


264 


STOLEN HONEY 


“I wonder if she'd like to see me?” put in Mrs. War¬ 
ing. 

“She probably won’t want anybody, but I must just 
see if there’s anything she needs. You’ll excuse me, 
won’t you?” She turned towards the house. 

“Oh, I’m coming in, too. We were only waiting here 
for you.” 

“I’m sorry we were delayed,” said Pamela, with an 
effort at politeness, “but you see how it was.” 

“Yes. I quite see how it was,” Mrs. Waring an¬ 
swered, with a curious little emphasis. 

“You had Darner to entertain you, so you were all 
right.” 

“On this occasion it was I who was entertaining him,” 
returned Mrs. Waring, with a sub-acid sweetness. 

“It is such a pleasure to him to have you here,” Pamela 
went on innocently. “And to me, too,” she added, fear¬ 
ing a lack of warmth on her own part. “It’s true in a 
way,” she assured herself. “Sure, anything that gives 
him pleasure pleases me, too.” 

She tapped at Dido’s door and opened it at a listless: 
“Come in!” 

The girl was sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands 
clasped between her knees. She had thrown off her hat, 
but had made no other change. She looked up dully at 
Pamela’s entrance. 

“I shall never forgive myself if he dies,” she said 
tonelessly. 

Pamela sat down on the bed next her and put an arm 
round the drooping shoulders. 

“But he’s not going to die, you goose,” she said 
cheerily. “Mr. Marshall assured us that it wasn’t a 
deadly snake at all.” 

“It looked deadly enough—ugh!” The girl shuddered. 


HELOISE SAYS HER SAY 


265 


“And they hustled him off quickly enough for anything.” 

“Don’t you know that snake-bite has got to be treated 
at once, before the poison has time to get into the blood ? 
Their prompt action has probably saved him a lot of 
suffering.” 

“What did they do, Pam?” 

“Cauterized the wound, Tim said, and gave him 
brandy, and sent at once for the old hakim!” 

“I wonder what the hakim will say? Do you believe 
in these native doctors, Pam?” 

“They ought to know more about snake-biting than 
Englishmen,” Pamela assured her. “Haven’t Eastern 
physicians always been noted for their skill?” 

“Have they?” said Dido, her sweet little white face 
slackening from its mask of tragedy. 

“Buck up, Dido. Your father has gone to the Barrage 
with Tim to hear the doctor’s report, and if he allows it, 
will bring M. de Marsac back with him.” 

Dido sprang to her feet, as if suddenly re-charged with 
vitality. 

“Dad’s a lamb! Do you think he’ll come, Pam? 
Where will you put him if he does. Is there anything I 
can do?” 

“Nothing for the present. I’ll give him Tim’s room, 
and put up a camp bed for Tim in Darner’s dressing- 
room.” 

“Pam, you’re a jewel! How do you think of these 
things ?” 

Pamela smiled, pleased at her success. 

“Long years of practice in Ireland,” she said. “Hurry 
and change now, and be downstairs when your dad gets 
back.” 

One of Dido’s prettiest frocks was already unhooked 
from its peg before the door had closed on Pamela. 


266 


STOLEN HONEY 


To her disappointment her father and Doran returned 
as they went, alone. 

‘‘Well, Dad, how is he?” Dido asked breathlessly. 
“You haven’t brought him back with you after all.” 

“No, little girl. When we got to the Barrage we found 
that the old hakim had taken him home with him. He’s 
rather a pal of de Marsac’s, it seems, and he is supposed 
to know all that is to be known about snake-bites, so the 
poor chap is in good hands.” 

“Does the hakim think he’ll—he’ll-” 

“He guarantees to cure him in a few days if he isn’t 
interfered with. That’s why he carried him off to his 
own house.” 

“I’m sorry he couldn’t come here,” said Dido, after 
a pause, trying to keep all that she felt out of her voice. 

“So am I,” returned Langrishe warmly. “I’d like to 
do something for him after what he did for you, my 
darling.” Moved out of his usual calm, he drew the girl 
towards him and kissed her. “I can’t bear to think of 
what might have happened, child,” he said huskily. 

Dido stood where he had left her, thinking deeply. 

At her father’s news of de Marsac, she had an instant 
vision of one of the tall secret-looking houses in the town, 
perhaps the house with the mitshrabiyeh shutters, from 
whence had come the high voice of the singer and the 
pulse of the tambourine. She clenched her hands at the 
thought. In imagination she saw de Marsac tended by 
some snowy-veiled beauty, whose dark eyes would cast a 
spell upon him in his weakness. She heard the high 
voice sing to him, saw the bare hand beat upon the taut 
skin of the tambourine, the liquid eyes look from beneath 
fringed lids for his applause; and the rare, painful red 
flooded her face, neck, and brow. 

For the first time in her young life she knew jealousy, 


HELOISE SAYS HER SAY 


267 


and found it, as the Wise One says, “cruel as the grave'* 

It would have stilled her smart had she realized that 
de Marsac would probably never even catch a glimpse of 
the womenkind of the hakim's house; that such houris as 
she pictured existed chiefly in her own imagination, and 
that even if any such dwelt in the harim of the old doctor, 
they would be kept in rigid seclusion during the Feran- 
sawi’s visit. 

But she did not know this, so Jealousy, that “hydra of 
calamity,” seized upon her, each of its ugly heads more 
suggestive and repulsive than the last. 

Doran, coming downstairs, saw her still standing in 
the hall. His pulses quickened at the thought of a word 
alone with her, but when a bend in the staircase brought 
her face into view, he turned abruptly, and went back to 
his own room. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


LANGRISHE ASKS QUESTIONS 

“Pam, were you in Cornwall last summer?” 

“No, Darner, I was at home. Why ?” 

“Heloise said that you told her you were there.” 
Pamela looked round from the mirror before which 
she was doing her hair for dinner. 

“I did not, indeed.” 

“She says you did.” 

“Ah, then maybe I did, after all,” said Pamela, remem¬ 
bering suddenly. “But I didn’t mean this past summer. 
I meant last summer—the one before this.” 

“It sounds rather involved, but I think I understand. 
Where were you staying?” 

“With the Blairs at Penzance. I was at school with 
Maisie Blair, you know.” 

“I don’t, but that doesn’t matter. Did you run across 
Doran by any chance, when you were there ?” 

“Across Tim, is it? I never saw sight nor sign of him. 
Why do you ask ?” she said again. 

“Because—well, I heard rather an unpleasant thing 
about him this afternoon, Pam.” He spoke with obvious 
reluctance. 

Pamela turned to face him, surprised, her brush sus¬ 
pended in action. 

“An unpleasant thing about Tim?” she cried. “What 
on earth was it, Darner?” 

Swiftly her mind rushed to the thought of his secret 
268 


LANGRISHE ASKS QUESTIONS 269 

friendship with Dido. Could it possibly be that? Could 
Damer have heard of it? Would he refer to it, if so, as 
an unpleasant affair. He might. That sort of clandes¬ 
tine meeting would lower his ideal of his womenfolk. 
She felt a quick thankfulness that she knew the truth of 
the whole matter. She would be able to assure him that 
it was more a mere youthful folly than an actual wilful 
deception. She might, perhaps, modify his rather rigid 
point of view, widen his narrowness. 

“He was living with a girl in Cornwall last summer," 
Langrishe put the truth badly. 

Pamela's brush dropped with a clatter. 

“Living with a girl? What girl?" she faltered, pal¬ 
ing. 

A horrible suspicion suddenly seized her. What if 
the “passages" so lightly referred to by Dido had been 
of deeper import than she pretended? What if the girl 

were- Ah, no! Pamela caught herself up with a jerk, 

reddening furiously, as she stooped to pick up her brush. 
Such a suspicion was as unworthy of her as it was of 
Dido. It shamed them both. 

“I don’t know," Langrishe returned, to her secret 
relief. “That’s just the bare facts as it was told me." 

“Who told you, Damer?" 

“Heloise Waring." 

“How in the world did she hear about it?" asked 
Pamela in astonishment. “I didn’t think she and Tim 
ever met before they travelled together in the boat train." 

“They didn’t. A friend who was seeing her off at 
Victoria recognized Doran as the hero of the Cornish 
episode, and told Heloise about it." 

“Why couldn’t she mind her own business? Did she 
say what sort the girl was ?’’ asked Pamela rather breath¬ 
lessly. 


270 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Quite young, quite pretty, and quite a lady. Not— 
the other kind.” 

“Was she dark or fair?” 

“Heloise didn’t say. Why do you ask, Pam? Have 
you any idea who the girl could be ?” 

“Indeed, I have not. How could I possibly have, 
Darner?” cried Pamela, with what seemed to him rather 
unnecessary vehemence. 

“It wasn’t—he wasn’t confiding in you about that 
affair the other night when he came down from Tahta. 

The night I-” he stopped abruptly. To finish the 

sentence—“the night I found you together in the fire¬ 
light with your hand on his knee and your eyes wet”— 
would savour too much of an accusation; or at least 
so it seemed to him in his present perturbed state of 

mind. 

“Oh, no.” Pamela assured him, with the same undue 
emphasis. “It wasn’t that at all. It wasn’t, indeed, 
Darner.” 

“What was he telling you that night, Pam?” 

Pamela hesitated, but only for an instant. She must 
tell him the truth as far as she could without betraying 
Tim’s confidence. She sought for words. 

“He was telling me how unhappy he was, because— 
because he cared for someone who—who could never care 
for him.” 

“Was that all?” 

“That was all.” 

“Pam, do you know who that someone is ?” 

“I’m afraid I do,” Pamela answered with averted face, 
her voice little more than a whisper. 

“Can you tell me ?” 

“I’m afraid I can’t, Darner. It’s—it’s his secret, not 

mine. ” 


LANGRISHE ASKS QUESTIONS 271 


“I understand,” said Langrishe gravely. “Of course, 
you can’t give him away. Thank you, my dear, for be¬ 
ing frank with me.” He moved rather heavily towards 
his dressing-room. 


CHAPTER XXX 


“memories** 

“Sure, aren’t I always frank with you, Darner?” she 
called after him. “There’s nothing in the world you 
could ask me that I wouldn’t tell you, except-” 

“Except?” he turned to her. 

“Except another person’s secret,” answered Pamela 
proudly. “Sure, you know that.” 

“Yes,” he said slowly, his hand on the door. 

She ran to him and put hers over it. She could 
not bear to have even the faintest shadow between them. 

“You do know that, don’t you, Darner?” 

“I do, my dear,” he answered, after a scarcely percep¬ 
tible pause. 

He went into his dressing-room pursued by one in¬ 
sistent thought. 

Heloise had been right, after all. In spite of the 
summer episode Doran was in love with Pamela now. 
Perhaps he had always cared for her, and that Cornish 
affair had merely been undertaken as a sort of cure. 
Men did that sort of thing, he knew. Sometimes it 
worked and sometimes it didn’t. In this case it would 
not appear to have done so. 

“Cast your memory back!” Heloise had advised him. 

That was not difficult. He threw his net into the 
immediate past and drew out proof after proof of Mrs. 
Waring’s suggestion. 

Pam’s sadness at Doran’s confession of his hopeless 
love, her ready blush at the mention of his name, her 
272 



“MEMORIES” 


273 


staunch defence of the poor chap’s secret, her refusal 
to tell even him who the girl was, all pointed to the one 
inevitable conclusion. 

There was no one else for it to be, after all. Doran 
and Dido scarcely even spoke to one another, and then 
only in the most ordinary fashion, while the fellow was 
forever dangling after Pam, talking to her, playing tennis 
with her, seeking her out on every possible occasion. 

Hang it all! Doran was eating his bread and salt! 
He might have the decency to keep away from his wife. 
Langrishe tied his tie crookedly at the thought. 

Then common honesty forced him to admit that he had 
never seen anything in Doran’s manner towards either 
Pamela or himself at which he could conscientiously cavil. 

“The chap’s a straight chap,” he assured himself. 
“Confound these cackling women! Why can’t they let 
well alone ?” 

Pamela, after her own fashion, relieved her feelings 
by shaking a clenched fist at Mrs. Waring’s door as she 
went downstairs. 

“Oh, then, that you mightn’t!” she murmured crypti¬ 
cally. 

Dido had vanished from the hall, and only Doran was 
in the drawing-room when she entered. He came for¬ 
ward to meet her and put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Look here, Pam,” he said, in rather a hard tone. I’m 
going to cut and run. I can’t stick this any longer.” 

“Can’t you?” answered Pamela gently. “I was afraid 
you were being hurt, my poor old boy.” 

“I am. Damnably! So that’s that ?” he returned, with 
a rather ghastly effort at a grin. “I see now that I 
haven’t an earthly, Pam, so I’d better get back to work 
first thing. You won’t mind if I don’t come here as 
often as I used.” 


274 


STOLEN HONEY 


“I will, indeed,” said Pamela frankly. “But I only 
want whatever is best for yourself, Timsy. Why do you 
think you haven’t a chance ? I was hoping-” 

“Because she told me so herself. Oh, she didn’t mince 
matters, I can assure you. She didn’t even leave a loop¬ 
hole for a hope to wriggle through. I had it straight 
from the shoulder in plainest black and white—if you 
don’t mind a mixed metaphor, Pam-” 

“I do not,” said Pamela slowly. Then she looked 
searchingly at him. “There’s one thing I want to ask 
you, Tim. Why should you think now that you might 
have a chance, when you knew all along that she never 
really cared for you ?” 

“Never really cared for me?” Doran’s face grew 
red and his eyes almost disappeared in his astonishment. 
“What makes you think that, Pam? Why, last summer 
she cared as much as I did! We were simply mad about 
each other. That was why I felt it couldn’t really be 
over, that I might even have half a chance.” 

“Last summer?” Pamela repeated, biting her lip. 
“Where were you last summer?” 

“Oh, just knocking round,” answered Doran uncom¬ 
fortably. “She did care then, Pam.” 

“If so, when and why did—the affair end? Why 
didn’t you wait for each other? Why did you break it 
off so utterly?” 

“It wasn’t my doing,” Doran protested passionately. 
“I’d have waited for ever for her, but she wouldn’t have 
it. She said, very truly, that I had no money and no 
prospects, and that we were both so young we’d get over 
it soon, that it wouldn’t hurt for long, and that we’d both 
probably be very thankful some day, and realize how wise 
she had been.” 

“You probably will,” said Pamela. “Though it’s 


“MEMORIES” 275 

hard to believe it now. Dido is not the girl for you, Tim. 
I don’t think she’d ever make you really happy.” 

Doran moved impatiently. He was too young and too 
sore still to realize that Time numbs most pains, no matter 
how sharp they are. Who looks upon Time as a bene¬ 
factor, especially in the morning of life?” 

“I could have made her care for me in time, if 
only-” he stopped. 

“If only what, Tim dear?” 

“If only another chap hadn’t come inside me.” 

“What other chap ?” 

“De Marsac.” Enmity rang in his tone. 

“Oh, Tim, what makes you think that?” 

“I don’t think it. I know it. Have you never watched 
her face when he’s near her? It changes absolutely. 
Her very voice changes. Nothing he does or says escapes 
her. It’s the same with him—damn him!” 

“Hush, Timsy. Curses come home to roost. Are 
you sure of this ?” 

“Is a fellow sure of what makes him suffer absolute 
hell?” 

For a moment she had a glimpse of misery that ap¬ 
palled her. She had not dreamed that the light-hearted, 
happy-go-lucky Tim could feel like that. 

“Oh, my dear, I am sorry,” she said, with quick sym¬ 
pathy. “If this is true, indeed you mustn’t come here 
again. I can’t have you hurt like this. Don’t tell anyone 
else what you have just told me, Tim. Darner mustn’t 
know. It would worry him dreadfully.” 

“I must apologize for interrupting a tete-a-tete,” said 
a smooth voice behind them. “I didn’t mean to listen, 
but I could not help overhearing your little appeal to Mr. 
Doran, dear Pamela.” 

Pamela turned, disconcerted, to see Mrs. Waring just 


2j6 


STOLEN HONEY 


behind her, fair and statuesque in filmy black draperies, 
above whose folds her beautiful shoulders and well-mod¬ 
elled head rose with almost classical effect. 

Completely mistress of the situation, she looked smil¬ 
ingly from one confused face to the other. 

“I confess that I’m devoured with curiosity to know 
what it is that must be kept from Darner. What it is 
that would worry him so dreadfully if he knew it. Won’t 
you admit me to your conspiracy of silence?” 

Doran cast a glance of mute a.ppeal to Pamela. Red¬ 
dening slightly, she blurted out the truth. 

“It’s something about M. de Marsac.” 

“Ah! Is he worse ?” 

“No! He will be all right in a few days, the doctor 
thinks.” 

“What is it, then?” She fixed her grey eyes coldly 
on Pamela to check her futile temporizing. 

“Tim thinks he admires Dido,” said Pamela reluctantly. 
Heloise Waring raised her eyebrows. 

“But why should Darner object to that? All the young 
men are crazy about the dear child,” she said pleasantly. 
Then she added, looking pointedly at Doran: “With 
one exception.” 

“Perhaps I’m not as great an exception as you think,” 
muttered Doran. 

“Dear Mr. Doran!” Heloise Waring raised incredulous 
brows and smiled dubiously as Dido drifted in from the 
terrace, pale and chill as a frosted leaf, just as Langrishe 
entered by the door. 

To herself she thought: “They are very clumsy fools. 
They can’t even lie convincingly! Poor Darner!” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


TANGLING THREADS 

“I’m afraid I shan’t be down again for some time, sir,” 
said Doran next morning, in bidding farewell to his host. 
“It’s been most awfully jolly, but I must chuck play for 
a bit now and work.” 

“Right,” answered Langrishe, without any protest. 
“There’s nothing like work. It won’t do any harm to 
stick to it for a while.” He gave his hand a warm grip. 
Poor young chap, it was hard lines on him, but he’d soon 
get over it, if he gritted his teeth and sweated at his job 
for a while. “It’s a man’s work, Doran, and worth do¬ 
ing.” 

“It is,” Doran assented. Then he said a little awk¬ 
wardly. “I’m rather a rotter at saying things, sir, but 
I just can’t tell you how grateful I am to you and—and 
Pam for being so ripping to me.” 

“That’s all right, my dear chap,” said Langrishe, a little 
gruffly. “You’ll always be welcome there, Doran, 
though, mind you, I think you’re wise to stay away for 
a bit.” 

Doran looked at him quickly, almost eagerly. 

“You know?” he breathed. 

Langrishe nodded. 

“I’m glad you do, sir,” said the young man simply. 

“Your bread and salt, you know-” He wrung Lan- 

grishe’s hand and ran down the steps. 

His own words! Bread and salt; the Eastern symbols 
277 


278 


STOLEN HONEY 


of friendship and loyalty. Langrishe turned back into 
the house, conscious of a sense of relief. The lad was a 
decent lad. His judgment of men was not at fault, after 
all. Whatever the boy’s past follies might have been, at 
least, he was running straight now. It wasn’t his fault 
that he loved Pam. Who could help loving her, if it 
came to that? Langrishe’s heart swelled at the thought 
of his wife and his own unprecedented luck. Their 
marriage, entered into so lightly, was turning out one of 
the rarely successful ventures. How was it that she cared 
so much for him? In spite of his disclaimer to Heloise, 
fourteen years disparity did mean a big gap, so wide that 
nothing but love could bridge it. Pam had thrown her 
plank across, he had thrown his. Thank God, they 
reached and held, leading to unimaginable joys. 

On the face of it, Doran was more her mate than he, 
Langrishe’s mind told him. The call of youth to youth 
was strong, and not to be disdained. But his heart cried 
out denial. Pamela was his, his mate, and no other’s. 
No matter how many years lay between them, they were 
near in spirit. They were one, he and she, and Time, 
binding his sheaf of days, would but draw them closer 
and closer to each other. He felt a great pity, a real 
sympathy for poor young Doran, as he went off to his 
day’s work, whistling tunelessly. 

Pamela had had what the French call a white night; a 
very different experience from that kindly Arab wish— 
“a night as white as milk.” 

Her broken sleep was haunted by vague fears, ugly, 
half-formed suspicions. She wished with all her heart 
that Mrs. Waring had kept her sordid little scandal to 
herself. What on earth did she want to tell it to Darner 
for? 

Pamela knew that men were not saints. She knew that 


TANGLING THREADS 


279 


such episodes were not uncommon, but she could not 
believe such a thing about Tim Doran; Tim, madly in 
love for months, as she knew him to be, with another 
girl! Was it likely that he would go straight from Dido 
to some illicit intrigue—last summer. ‘‘Last summer she 
cared as much as I did. We were simply mad about each 
Other.” 

Last summer! Last summer! 

The words buzzed in her head with the persistence of 
mosquitoes. 

Oh, how she wished that that mischief-making woman 
had not repeated her horrid story! There was no neces¬ 
sity for her to have told Darner. The thing was over 
and done with. Why need she have raked it up? 

It was well for Pamela’s comparative peace of mind 
that she had no idea of the deeper implications of Heloise 
Waring’s tale. Of her secret enemity towards herself 
she was subconsciously aware, but she never dreamed that 
she could carry it so far as to try deliberately to sow 
seeds of suspicion in Darner’s mind. Nor had she the 
faintest idea that Darner could possibly imagine her to be 
the object of poor Tim’s hopeless passion. 

Loyal to the core, such a suspicion would be, to Pamela, 
utterly impossible of conception. It was Dido alone who 
occupied her broken waking thoughts. Dido and the 
pricking puzzle of “last summer” that loomed before her 
so portentously with all the magnifying effect which night 
has upon even the smallest worries. 

It was no wonder that she was pale and heavy-eyed in 
the morning, no wonder that her conversation seemed a 
little flat, her geniality a trifled forced. 

Her quiet “Good-bye and good luck, Tim,” had not the 
power to blot out Dido’s valedictory. 

“Cheerio, Tubby old thing. Mind you bring me a 


28 o 


STOLEN HONEY 


stuffed crocodile the next time you come down,” which 
rang in Doran’s ears mockingly, a fitting funeral dirge to 
what she had made of their idyll. 

Langrishe’s sparse farewell, with its nod of understand¬ 
ing; braced him like a tonic after it. 

“That’s a man, if you like,” he thought to himself. 
“Pam’s a lucky girl!” 

Had he known what was really in his host’s mind he 
might have wondered at a force of character even greater 
than that with which he had credited him; but naturally, 
nothing could have been more remote from his thoughts. 

He had no more idea than Pamela of the insidious 
suspicions which Mrs. Waring was endeavouring to instil 
into Langrishe’s mind. He would have hated her even 
more than he did if he had. 

A long day loomed in front of Pamela when the men 
had gone. Nothing was planned for their remaining 
guest’s amusement. Dido, in he^ present, withdrawn 
mood, did not seem likely to be of much use as enter¬ 
tainer. 

A servant who had been sent to inquire for de Marsac, 
brought back the news that the Effendi was progressing 
favourably. 

This ascertained, the day’s excitement was over for 
Dido. She wandered aimlessly from room to room, 
settling to nothing, played the piano for a little, strolled 
out on the terrace, sat on the parapet smoking innumer¬ 
able cigarettes. 

At last Pamela felt impelled to intervene. 

“Come here, Dido,” she called from the drawing-room 
window. “You’ll turn into a chimney if you smoke so 
many cigarettes.” 

“What does it matter ?” said Dido listlessly, tossing her 
cigarette away. 


TANGLING THREADS 


281 

“You’ll realize how much it matters when you’ve spoilt 
your complexion,” Pamela warned her. 

“Stupid old Mammy Pam! Can’t I paint?” 

“No, you can’t,” said Pamela shortly. “But I’ll tell 
you what you can do.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Think of some way of entertaining Mrs. Waring for 
the afternoon. I’m stumped!” 

“My dear Pam, I tell you for the umpteenth time that 
you take too much trouble over our Louisa. Let her en¬ 
tertain herself for once. She’s quite capable of it.” 

“I dare say, but it seems rude to one’s guest-” 

“Tosh!” returned Dido tersely. “Look here, Pam, 
let’s rest to-day. I feel a bit done, somehow. I got 
rather a fright yesterday—about M. de Marsac, I mean. 
Whatever we do will seem flat after the excitement of 
Christmas, so let’s do nothing. You look as if you 
wanted a rest, too. You’re not at your best and brightest 
this morning, my little stepmother.” 

“I know. I didn’t sleep very well last night,” Pamela 
admitted. 

“Aha! A bad conscience?” 

“No, it was not.” 

“What was it, then?” Dido plumped Pamela into a 
big chair and perched herself on the arm of it. “Out 
with your guilty secrets, Mammy Pam. Louisa won’t be 
down for another hour.” 

Pamela looked up at the girl in astonishment. Except 
for a little pucker between her eyebrows, which she knew 
was caused by anxiety about de Marsac, Dido’s tone and 
attitude were absolutely care-free. Should she speak 
frankly to her about what was worrying her, and scotch 
her tormenting doubts once and for all? She might not 
have such another propitious opportunity for days. With 


282 


STOLEN HONEY 


all her heart she wanted to put the thing behind her, 
to have done with it. Tim was gone. She did not know 
when she would see him again, but Dido was here, and in 
a softened mood. She determined to plunge. 

“The guilty secrets aren’t mine,” she said quietly. 
“They concern poor Tim.” 

“Tubby? What about him?” cried Dido, on a 
sharpened note. “I thought he was safely in Tahta by 
this, and that we weren’t going to be bothered any more 
with him.” 

“You’re not very kind about him, Dido.” 

“Why should I be kind about him?” 

“You haven’t been altogether frank with me, either.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You let me think that the caring was all on his 
side.” 

Dido peered down at her. 

“Who told you it wasn’t?” 

“Tim himself.” 

Dido gave a stifled exclamation. 

“He told me that you were mad about each other last 
summer. Those were his very words,” Pamela continued 
inflexibly. 

“Good words, too,” muttered Dido savagely. “I must 
have taken leave of my senses to imagine that I cared for 
him.” 

“Why did you pretend to me that you didn’t?” 

Dido swung an angry foot to and fro. 

“I dunno! Perhaps because it seems so impossible 
now to believe I ever did!” 

“Why is it so impossible now?” 

“Pam, you’re boring. You know how I hate being 
questioned,” exclaimed Dido angrily. 

“I can’t help that. We’ve gone so far now that this 


TANGLING THREADS 283 

thing has got to be cleared. I lay awake half the night 
thinking about it.” 

“More fool you!” said Dido rudely, jumping off the 
chair. “I can’t imagine why you worried about what 
doesn’t concern you.” 

"But it does concern me, Dido,” cried Pamela reproach¬ 
fully. “Aren’t I very fond of you, and don’t I stand in 
the place of your mother to you? I’d do anything in the 
world I could for you, child, but there must be truth be¬ 
tween us if I am to be of any use to you.” 

“Are you to be of any use to me ?” said Dido flippantly. 

“It doesn’t seem so. I’m sorry,” answered Pamela 
tonelessly. 

She rose from her chair, but .before she could move to 
leave the room, Dido rushed at her, caught her by the arms 
and pushed her down on the seat again. 

“No, no, no, Pam! You mustn’t go away in a huff. 
I’m a little beast, I know. Even poor Tubby said so, 
but in my heart I don’t really mean to be nasty to you. 
Do forgive me, Mammy Pam, and I’ll tell you anything— 
anything you like.” She knelt in front of the chair, 
leaning her arms on Pamela’s knees. 

Pamela looked at her for a moment dispiritedly. 

“Maybe you’ll invent things.” 

“No, I won’t,” Dido’s face cleared. “I am really 
rather a truthful person in spite of appearances.” 

“But you laugh at everything.” 

“It is my nature, I can’t help that. Tell me what you 
want to know, Pam, and I’ll answer any questions you 
like.” 

“Honest Injun?” 

“Honest Injun.” 

“Very well, then.” Having got her concession, Pamela 
hesitated, wondering how to frame her question without 


284 


STOLEN HONEY 


antagonizing the girl. The direct method appealed most 
to her own frank nature. She had had enough of hints 
and evasions. She thrust now for the bare truth. 

“Dido,” she said very quietly, looking down into the big, 
dark eyes turned up to her, “were you in Cornwall with 
Tim last summer?” 

Dido sprang to her feet, her face sharpening, her eyes 
dilating with fear. 

“My God, who told you about that?” 

Pamela rose too, and faced her, her mind in a whirl. 

“It was you, then ?” 

“It was.” Dido’s breath came in quick pants. “But 
how did you hear about it? Did—did he tell you? Oh, 
I could kill him if he did!” 

“You mean Tim? No, he never said a word about it. 
Tim’s a gentleman, Dido.” 

The quiet rebuke passed the girl by unheeded. She 
looked round the room as if for some way of escape. She 
reminded Pamela, as she faced her resentfully, of a little 
wild cat she had once found in a trap—a fierce, beautiful 
little creature, all teeth and claws, even for its rescuer. 

Pamela felt a sudden pity well within her. Dido was 
very young, very spoilt. She had never really known a 
mother’s care, never shared the rough and tumble, the give 
and take of a large family. She was entirely self-willed, 
self-centred; she had done what she pleased all her life; 
plucked her stolen fruit, it seemed, without ever* realizing 
what -bitter seeds it might bear. 

Pamela went up to where she stood, glaring at her, and 
put an arm round the slight shoulders. 

Dido drew away. 

“Don’t touch me. I hate being touched.” 

“Very well, I won’t, then.” Pamela stifled a sigh. 
“Come and sit down on the couch and tell me all about it.” 


TANGLING THREADS 


285 


“Why should I?” the girl cried angrily. “You’ve 
pried and spied and found things out for yourself. Why 
should I tell you any more?” 

“Oh, Dido. I haven’t pried and spied, and indeed, 
didn’t at all want to find out anything about you. It was 
only when Mrs. Waring told your father, and he told 
me-” 

“Heloise told Dad about me?” said Dido, paling and 
clasping her hands to her breast. 

To Pamela’s half-pitying, half-searching gaze, the girl 
seemed to shrink within herself. 

“No, no,” she answered quickly. “Neither of them 
knows it was you.” 

A shudder passed over Dido’s whole figure. She gave 
a sigh that shook her like a reed. 

“Thank God for that!” she breathed, closing her eyes. 
The little, pale, pointed face looked like a death-mask 
of an elf, Pamela thought pitifully; something primitive 
and pagan, not an ordinary mortal girl. 

“Come here, Dido,” she said again, a tender inflection 
in her voice. “I’ll tell you all I know.” 

Slowly Dido opened her eyes and crossed to the couch 
where Pamela sat, sinking down listlessly beside her. 

“Who told Heloise?” she asked, when Pamela had 
ended her brief recital. 

“Some woman who was seeing her off at Victoria, who 
recognized Tim. Some woman who had seen him—and 
the girl—in Cornwall.” 

Dido drew a long breath. 

“And I thought it was all dead and buried—dead and 
buried!” she said, raising her hands and letting them fall 
again in her lap. “Now I think I’d better tell you my 
version of the story.” 

“I think you had, my dear,” said Pamela gravely, 
wondering what she was about to hear. 



XXXII 


dido's story 

“There's nothing in it, really," said Dido, after a pause. 

“I can't make a three-act drama of it, Pam, nor even a 
Grand Guignol thriller.” 

She stopped and stared in front of her, as if she were 
looking down into some pool of the past, which held her 
secret mirrored therein. 

“Suppose you tell me,” Pamela suggested gently, 
sending up a wordless prayer for wisdom in dealing with 
this girl, who, after all, was not so very much younger 
than herself. 

“Oh, I was a prize idiot!” Dido answered slowly, 
heaving a long sigh. Then she gave her shoulders a little 
shake, as if she threw off some burden which was oppres¬ 
sing her, and looked from her end of the couch to where 
Pamela sat, waiting to hear what she found it so ’difficult 
to put into words. “I’ll try to give you the thing in a 
nut shell. It’s not worth expanding. To make a long 
story short, Tubby and I imagined ourselves in love with 
each other last year. It began in the spring and lasted on 
—until the summer. From the first I knew how it must 
end, and I thought he did too, but he didn’t. That was 
the mischief of it. When Binky decided to go down to 
Cornwall to sketch and asked me to come too, I jumped 
at the idea. The Grands made no objection. You see, 
Binky’s father is a retired general—General Bladen.” 

“Ah, so Miss Bladen was there, too?” cried Pamela, 
286 


DIDO’S STORY 287 

in a note of heartfelt relief. “What mischief-makers 
people are! No one ever mentioned that fact.” 

“Because it was only a fact—at first,” Dido admitted 
reluctantly. “When Tubby turned up unexpectedly, 
neither of us was surprised, and I was quite delighted. It 
really was ripping there,” she continued reminiscently. 
“We practically lived in the water. Then the unexpected 
happened. Binky’s stupid old father took it into his head 
to get ill, and she was sent for. There was a week more 
of our time to run. It was the tiniest place, just a 
handful of cottages, and a little inn to which no one ever 
came—so—so Tubby and I just stayed on there! We 
thought it was all right, that no one would ever know. 
No one would have known either, if only those sicken¬ 
ing people hadn't put in in their odious yacht one 
day.” 

Pamela gasped at this little glimpse of Dido’s mentality. 

“You thought it was all right if no one knew about it? 
But, Dido, didn’t your own conscience tell you that it 
was anything but right, to stay on alone at an inn with— 
with your lover?” 

“Haven’t got a conscience. Scrapped it long ago,” 
returned Dido, with a hard flippancy, which only half 
deceived her hearer. “You should be more up-to-date, 
Pam. There was nothing wrong in it, really.” 

“There was everything wrong in it,” returned Pamela 
slowly. “I wonder at Tim. Even if you were too young 
and inexperienced to understand, he should have known 
better. He should have insisted on your leaving with 
Miss Bladen.” 

“To give him his due he did his best, but I persuaded 
him to stay. I could twist him round my finger, poor old 
Tubby. I didn’t want to go back to Cheltenham, to the 
Grands, in that gorgeous weather, and I really didn’t see 


288 


STOLEN HONEY 


why we shouldn’t take the goods the gods have given 
us!” 

“Do you see now, Dido?” 

“Yes. I see that it was rather idiotic.” 

“It was more than idiotic to run the risk of ruining 
your reputation for the sake of a week’s fun,” said Pam¬ 
ela gravely. 

“You take a very stodgy view. We did nothing wrong, 
only ragged and played about, and had a good time.” 

“Who’s going to believe that?” 

Dido looked at her sharply. “You believe it, don’t 
you?” 

“Yes, I believe it, because I couldn’t believe anything 
else of your father’s daughter, Dido, but other people 
may not be so credulous. You know how censorious they 
can be. A young girl’s reputation is as delicate as a 
butterfly’s wing. If once you rub the bloom off it, no 
power on earth can put it on again.” 

Dido moved uneasily. “Who’s going to know about it, 
though ?” 

“A good many people seem to know about it, already. 
You and Tim, Miss Bladen, your landlady and myself. 
Those know the whole truth, while half is known to your 
father, Mrs. Waring and that other woman, and who can 
tell how many more?” 

“Binky doesn’t know we stayed on. She left by an 
early morning train. We were supposed to catch a later 
one. The landlady doesn’t know my name. She thought 
I was Binky’s sister. She always called me Miss Bladen, 
and I didn’t undeceive her.” 

“But that might injure another girl.” 

“There isn’t another. Binky’s an only daughter like 
myself.” 

Pamela sighed heavily. Was this the new morality, 


DIDO’S STORY 


289 


to judge right or wrong by the sole standard of being 
found out? Had Dido no real ethical sense? Was 
there no chink in her armour of flippant hardness? 

She did not want to wound the elusive creature. She 
only wanted to touch the humanity in her, to come close 
to the real Dido, that so persistently evaded her. 

“What do you think your father would say, if he knew 
the truth?” She asked, after a pause. 

Ah, she had found the chink now, with her bdw drawn 
at a venture! Dido winced visibly, and leaned closer with 
blazing eyes. 

“Pam, you couldn’t be such* a beast as to tell him! 
Promise. Swear that you won’t tell him.” She beat 
the couch with insistent little hands. 

“I won’t tell him,” said Pamela slowly. “It would 
hurt him too much.” 

“Promise! Swear it!” urged Dido vehemently. 

“I’ve promised once already. That ought to be 
enough.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” sighed Dido. “You’ve such a 
queer conscience, old thing.” 

“Why are you so desperately anxious that your father 
shouldn’t know?” Pamela was delving for enlighten¬ 
ment. “Are you afraid that he wouldn’t understand, 
wouldn’t believe you, wouldn’t forgive you?” 

Dido reddened to one of her painful blushes. 

“I rather think he wouldn’t. His own women must 
be as Csesar’s wife, to poor old Dad. He was most arch¬ 
aic notions. He’d never understand. He’d probably 
want to insist on my marrying Tubby!” 

“I’m not sure that you oughtn’t to, Dido.” 

Dido sat up stiffly, fury in her eyes. 

“You’re a thousand years behind the times, Pam,” 
she cried. “Just as old-fashioned as he is! For some 


290 


STOLEN HONEY 


stupid notion of conventional morality you’d sacrifice my 
whole life by making me marry a man whom I am posi¬ 
tively growing to dislike.” 

"But you loved him once.” 

"Tosh! A schoolgirl’s infatuation, nothing more. I 
know now that I never really cared a pin for Tubby.” 

“Who has taught you that?” asked Pamela, with a 
flash of intuition. 

Dido shot a look of contempt at her. 

"Do you mean to say you don’t know?” 

“Is it M. de Marsac?” 

"Who else could it possibly be?” countered Dido 
superbly. 

She slipped from the couch, and stood facing Pamela. 

"Haven’t you, a woman, seen how it was between us? 
Do you^,really think there’s another man I’d look at?” 

"Oh!” cried Pamela, "I was afraid of this.” 

"Afraid?” echoed Dido scornfully. "Why should you 
be afraid?” 

"I don’t know that he’s the man for you.” 

"I do. No one else may dare to judge. We are man 
and woman. If we choose each other, who else has the 
right to interfere ?” 

"He may be a man, but you are not a woman yet, Dido. 
You’re barely eighteen. Not nearly old enough to know 
youf own mind. By your own telling you were madly in 
love with another man six months ago!” argued Pamela. 

"I wasn’t. I tell you it meant nothing at all. I know 
that now. And I am a woman, with a woman’s heart 
in a woman’s body. As for love, what do you know of 
it, you simple -creature ? Why, there is more passion in 
my little finger than in the whole of your tall, placid 
body! I burn, I hunger, I thirst with love!” 

"Stop, Dido! You’re shameless, as well as melo- 


DIDO’S STORY 


291 


dramatic,” cried Pamela, angry at the double accusation 
of simplicity and inability to love. “Has M. de Marsac, 
then, asked you to marry him?” 

Dido’s fire sank as suddenly as it had flared upwards. 

“No, but I know he loves me.” 

. “Has he told you so?” 

“Does one always need be told ?” 

“Then there is nothing really between you?” said 
Pamela, in a curious tone. 

“There is everything in the world between us,” cried 
Dido. 

Pamela looked at her helplessly. What was she to 
say? “If M. de Marsac really cares for you and wants 
to marry you, he will, being a Frenchman, naturally 
approach your father first.” 

“Yes, yes I know,” interrupted the girl breathlessly. 
“And that’s why you must never breathe a word to Dad 
about that Cornish affair. He has such old-fashioned, 
rigid sort of notions, that I know he’d insist on Raoul’s 

being told about it, and then-” She threw out her 

hands with a hopeless gesture. 

“What do you mean ?” 

“I mean it would be the end of all things. Do you 
think any Frenchman would look twice at a girl who had 
spent a week with another man, no matter how inno¬ 
cently? In the first place he’d never believe it was inno¬ 
cently. In the second—well, that’d be about all! Na¬ 
poo!” She let her hands fall into her lap. Then she 
looked up at Pamela, her expressive mouth in a straight 
line. “If I had done anything really wrong, I might feel 
impelled to tell him myself. As it was only folly-” 

“Sometimes people pay more dearly for folly than for 
the actual sin,” Pamela reminded her. 

“I’m not going to pay this time.” 



292 


STOLEN HONEY 


“One has always to pay for stolen fruit sooner or 
later.” 

“I’m not going to pay this time,” said Dido again. 
“I don’t care who else does.” 

“It seems to me that we are all paying, in a sense,” 
said Pamela, heavily. 

“You’re not, anyhow.” 

“I don’t know. I think I am. I’m greatly worried 
about the whole affair.” 

“Don’t worry, poor old Mammy Pam. It will all 
come right. Things always do, if one lets them alone 
and doesn’t worry.” 

“Someone has to worry.” 

“Now you’re being pessimistic, old thing.” 

“Dido, have you any feelings for others, any heart?” 
cried Pamela sharply. 

Dido stood still. A wonderful look stole over her little 
peaked face, into her liquid dark eyes. 

“No. I haven’t got any heart,” she answered slowly. 
“I’ve given it all away, every bit of it.” 

“What will you do if M. de Marsac doesn’t want to 
marry you?” thrust Pamela. “I have been told that 
he is not a marrying man.” 

She was half sorry she had spoken when she saw the 
change in Dido’s face, the swift quelling of her radi¬ 
ance; but she felt that she had to warn the girl, that 
she could not leave her in her fool’s paradise uncau¬ 
tioned. 

The cloud lifted again instantly. 

“Would he have risked his life for me yesterday, if 
he had not loved me?” Dido asked. 

“Any man of your acquaintance would have done as 
much. Dido, has he said anything definite to you?” 
pursued Pamela, with all the Irishwoman’s desire for the 


DIDO’S STORY 


293 

“hard word” as the definite proposal is called among 
the peasantry. 

Dido shrugged impatiently. “I know he cares as I 
do. You yourself said that he would go to dad first. 
He might have gone to-day if it hadn’t been for that 
snake-bite. Oh, Pam, if he dies, I shall die too!” 

“Nonsense!” said Pamela, with a lack of sympathy, 
due to a growing uneasiness. “He’s not going to die 
just now, nor you either! Be sensible, Dido. The more 
I think of this thing, the less I like it. You have put 
yourself in a very awkward position, to say the least of 
it. You have created a situation which is capable of a 
very ugly interpretation, and one which is very difficult 
to explain.” 

“It must be a rotten censorious old world if two pals 
can’t stay at a village inn together for a week without 
people think evil of them,” grumbled Dido. 

“It is a censorious world. On your own admission 
you and Tim were more than pals. You were lovers. It 
shows how very young you are to have contemplated 
doing such a thing at all. Oh, I’d like to shake Tim!” 
cried Pamela suddenly. “I have no patience with him 
for being so weak. He should have known better. He 
shouldn’t have let you put yourself in such a position.” 

“He couldn’t help it,” said Dido, magnanimously. 
“You don’t know how nagging I can be when I want a 
thing. I can be as persistent as a mosquito and just as 
annoying. You mustn’t blame poor old Tubby. He has 
enough on his shoulders as it is.” 

“I wish I could make you see the seriousness of it,” 
sighed Pamela. 

“ ’Fraid you can’t, Mammy Pam. There’s nothing 
really serious about it, so long as Dad and Raoul de 
Marsac don’t know.” 


294 


STOLEN HONEY 


“But there is, Dido.’' 

“But there isn’t, Pam. You’ve promised not to tell 
them, and that’s all that matters.” Suddenly Dido 
dropped her flippant air and, sliding along the couch, 
nestled close to her as Kitty might have done. “Solemn 
old thing,” she whispered. “Do you know what it is to 
fear a man even when you adore him? To feel thrills of 
fire at his touch, to want to defy him and be his slave all 
in one breath?” She sat up and away from Pamela 
again. “But of course you don’t. How could you? 
Dad is a dear, but he couldn’t possibly make you feel like 
that!” 

“You’re as bad as Great-Aunt Lucilla!” cried Pamela, 
pricked by the indictment. “You think I am too old to 
know anything. She thought I was too young. I know 
what love is, in spite of your denials, and I have sufficient 
experience to fear that what you are suffering from, Dido, 
is a bad attack of mere infatuation.” 

“It is not!” cried Dido indignantly. “How dare 
you say so? I love Raoul de Marsac with my whole 
heart and soul.” 

“My poor child, what do you know about love? It’s 
very essence is sacrifice, its keynote selflessness,” said 
Pamela half-reluctantly. 

“I do know. I do!” Dido cried vehemently. “I’d 
walk barefoot through the world for him, and think it 
only a joy. I’d die for him this minute.” 

The change in her, startled Pamela, for out of the 
child’s face a woman’s soul peered suddenly; out of the 
dark eyes gleamed a woman’s heritage, suffering. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


CROSS CURRENTS 

Langrishe did not return to luncheon, so the little party 
was, to Mrs. Waring’s way of thinking, stupidly feminine. 
She was quite ready to fall in with Pamela’s suggestion 
of a quiet afternoon. 

“It will do us all good,” she admitted graciously. 
“You young people had rather a riotous few days, and 
I have arrears of Christmas letters to write before I go 
on to Luxor.” 

Dido pricked up faun-like ears from her lethargy. 

“When are you going to Luxor?” she asked, voicing 
the question which Pamela longed, but did not dare, to 
put into words. 

“I must be getting on soon,” Mrs. Waring returned 
vaguely. “But it is so delightful here that I am loth to 
make a move.” 

She did not want to burn her boats absolutely until 
she saw that there was no real chance of pursuing her 
favourite amusement, playing with fire, with Darner 
Langrishe at the other side of the flame. 

“I hope you will stay as long as you feel inclined,” said 
Pamela, with as much warmth as she could achieve. 
“Oh, what a hypocrite I’m getting!” she thought to 
herself. “I’ll be a real society woman before I’ve done.” 

Dido shot a swift glance from beneath her eyelashes 
at her mother’s old friend. 

“I wonder what game she’s playing,” she mused. 
“She’s up to something. No doubt of that. Otherwise 
295 


296 


STOLEN HONEY 


she’d never stay more than a day at a place like El-Armut. 
She’s got her knife in Pam, anyhow. I’ll keep my eyes 
open.” 

Which process she started by almost closing them. 

“My little Dido has been burning the candle at both 
ends,” Mrs. Waring said archly. “And as for poor 
Pamela, she looks quite worn out. When you come to 
my age, dear children, you will know how to take better 
care of yourselves.” 

“It gives one a great pull, though, to be still in the 
twenties,” said Dido dreamily. 

“Saucy child! Why you haven’t reached them yet!” 

“Haven’t I? Sometimes I feel as if I were forty!” 
exclaimed Dido, stifling a yawn. 

“You have a long way to go before you will know 
what that really feels like,” said Mrs. Waring. 

Pamela, with a swift desire to please, blundered fatally. 

“I am sure it feels very much the same as the twenties, 
doesn’t it?” she said, with a propitiatory smile at her 
guest. 

Dido grinned. Mrs. Waring raised her eyebrows, and 
returned the smile sub-acidly. 

“My dear Pamela, I’m afraid it will be several years 
before I can give you the benefit of my personal experi¬ 
ence on that point. I am not quite so ancient as you 
imagine.” 

Pamela, flushing, floundered still farther. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she cried apologetically. “I thought 
you and Darner were about the same age. Cousin Helena 
was a year older, I know.” 

Mrs. Waring breathed a sigh of pity for Langrishe’s 
misfortune in being tied to so gauche a creature. Aloud 
she said, as she rose from the luncheon table: 


CROSS CURRENTS 


207 


“Poor Helena was many years my senior.” 

Her tone held a gentle rebuke and an irritating for¬ 
giveness. 

Hassan held the dining-room door open for three very 
silent ladies. Dido drew Pamela into the drawing-room, 
as Mrs. Waring went gracefully upstairs. 

“Another moment and I should have burst!” she 
cried delightedly. “Pam, you were priceless. I only 
wish that it had been cleverness that inspired you, not 
simplicity.” 

“Why?” 

“Because then you would be better able to cope with 
our Louisa. As it is-” 

“As it is, I put my foot in it most dreadfully,” Pamela 
sighed. “Why didn’t you kick me, Dido, or prevent 
me in some way?” 

“Not having the gift of thought-reading, I couldn’t 
know what you were going to say,” Dido retorted. “As 
it was, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Her face 
was a positive study.” 

“It was awfully stupid of me, but I really thought she 
was over forty.” 

Dido went into peals of laughter. “So she is, of 
course. That was what rankled so much!” 

“I don’t see why it need. After all, it’s not a crime 
to be forty.” 

“No, but it’s one to look it,” chuckled Dido. “Oh, 
Mammy Pam, you really are priceless. I’m so glad my 
dear, Father Noah married you.” 

“Don’t Dido. I don’t like you to call him that.” 

“Some of his ideas do come out of the Ark, though. 
Yours do too, so you’re well matched.” 

Suddenly, to Pamela’s intense surprise, Dido flung her 


298 


STOLEN HONEY 


arms around her and kissed her. Then, finger on lip, 
she whispered dramatically, “Don’t tell anyone!” and tip¬ 
toed from the room. 

Pamela took a tangled skein of thoughts to her couch, 
and tried to unravel its varied threads. Dido, the prin¬ 
cipal one, presented several knots. 

How young the girl was, in spite of her veneer of so¬ 
phistication! She had been brought up in such a totally 
different school from herself, that Pamela found it very 
difficult to grasp her point of view, no matter how honestly 
she tried. They seemed to see everything from a different 
angle. She was like the leprechaun of Pamela’s fairy-tale 
days, who had the power of changing into something else 
after you had grasped him, if you took your eyes off him 
for an instant. Again and again she imagined that she 
had grasped the real Dido, only to find some strange faun 
or elf within her hands. Her latest failure rankled most. 
She had thought to touch the girl’s hidden humanity in 
her love for her father, and behold, her feeling was only 
fear lest he should force her to tell the compromising 
truth to the man she loved. 

Her passion for de Marsac rang true. By the touch¬ 
stone of Pamela’s own love she knew it genuine as far as 
it went. But how far did it go ? That was the problem. 
Was it merely the call of a physical passion, a fire that 
would quickly consume itself in the intensity of its own 
desire, or did a spark of the eternal lie within its soaring 
flame? Was de Marsac in earnest or was it just a passing 
fancy on his part? Was Dido the woman to hold him 
once desire was satisfied? She was young, she was vital, 
but she was crude with a crudity which might not appeal 
to that polished man of the world, that blase amateur of 
women. Her sophistication was but a mask, easily 
adjusted, easily slipped aside. She was like no one else 


CROSS CURRENTS 


299 


whom Pamela had ever encountered, though she recog¬ 
nized common fundamentals beneath the girl's complex¬ 
ities. 

With a sigh she thought of her own early life. If it 
had been Kitty, now, she would have known how to 
manage her, or even Babs. But then neither Kitty nor 
Babs would ever have committed such folly as Dido’s. 
They had been too well brought up. That it had been only 
folly she never doubted. As she had truly said to Dido, 
she could not have believed her father’s daughter capable 
of anything worse. 

But it was an ugly story, and a difficult one to explain, 
if it should ever leak out. 

Darner must not hear it: that was one thing certain. 
It would hurt him far too much. Not even Dido herself 
realized more fully than she did m what high esteem he 
held his own women-folk. They were beings apart; 
sacrosanct, as far as his ideals were concerned. Other 
women might be light, untruthful, disloyal, hypocritical: 
that was their concern. But from those of his own house 
he exacted, as from himself, the highest standard of 
honour. 

Pamela knew him well enough now to realize that he 
would be wounded and humiliated to the core should 
either of them transgress his rigid code of ethics. Some¬ 
times, being very human and full of flaws, she heaved a 
little sigh and wished that he *were not quite so inflexible: 
but in her heart of hearts she loved and respected him all 
the more for it: and would not really have had him lower 
his standard by the eighth of an inch. 

Why could not Dido have continued to care for Tim 
Doran? It would have simplified everything. Darner 
liked him, and though he might have insisted on a long 
engagement, he would probably have raised no other 


300 


STOLEN HONEY 


objection. The family honour would have been safe in 
Tim’s hands. But oh, how stupid the boy had been. 
Pamela felt exasperation against him rise within her. 
How did men look at such matters? She did not know. 
She was only aware that some inner delicacy in herself 
revolted from the careless way in which Dido had ftn- 
perilled her reputation, that tender fragility, so easily 
damaged. 

She tossed to and fro, finding but little rest. 

Dido lay by her open window, watching the Nile boats 
drift by in the warm afternoon sunlight, their masts 
slanting like blown reeds against the shimmering distance. 
Some of them bore cargoes of great water-jars from 
Kenah, ends outermost, which looked like gigantic eggs 
of palest green, grey and cream. Now and again a song 
came from a passing boat, its harshness softened by 
distance, or the thin poignance of a reed-pipe pierced the 
drowsy stillness keenly as the cry of a kite. The 
Eastern music, so unfamiliar to Western ears, with its 
strange intervals and dissonances, brought back to her 
mind the sudden song in the secret-looking house. Her 
former vision returned to torment the girl. Her thoughts 
spun chaotically. 

Was it only yesterday that it had all happened? Only 
yesterday that she realized and admitted to herself that 
she loved de Marsac for good or ill? Only yesterday 
that she had bowed her head to acknowledge him her 
master? He did not know that, of course, unless he had 
seen it in her eyes in that breathless moment before he 
had rushed to pull the snake from her path. . . . Pam 
was wrong. None of them would have done what he did. 
The others might have kicked the reptile aside or hit it 
with a stick, but he, with his bare hands, had snatched 
death from her foot. . . . Surely, surely, he loved her. 


CROSS CURRENTS 


30 1 


His looks, his touch told her so. There could not be 
such fire from mere contact with his hand did it not run 
in his own veins as well. . . . “Not a marrying man!” 
What a stupid, revolting phrase! How provincial of 
Pam even to utter it. Of course no man was a marrying 
man until the right woman came. But was she the right 
woman ? Some little insistent doubt pricked her. In her 
mind’s eye she could see de Marsac well content with the 
ministrations of his white-veiled houri. Could she be 
content with the attention of any man but him ? Honesty 
compelled her to a grudging: “Well, perhaps —pour 
passer le temps —but not really!” 

Maybe it would be “not really” with him too. In a 
day or two she would know. 

A day or two ? An eternity or two! 

With all the impatience of youth, she tossed and turned, 
and thought the hours would never end. 

Langrishe came home to tea to find only one member 
of his household awaiting his arrival in the drawing-room, 
and that his guest. 

Heloise Waring, beautifully draped, coiffed and per¬ 
fumed as usual, looked up from her favourite corner of 
the couch as he entered. 

“Where’s Pam ?” he asked when he had greeted her. 

It was invaribly his question if she were absent on his 
return. On this occasion it acted on Heloise Waring 
with the same effect as the red cloth of the matador upon 
his already goaded victim. 

“Dear Pamela has not appeared yet,” she said 
sweetly. 

“She seemed a little out of sorts this afternoon, and I 
urged her to have a good rest.” 

“Why was she out of sorts? Anything wrong?” 
querted Langrishe bluntly. 


302 


STOLEN HONEY 


Heloise raised her expressive eyebrows and pursed her 
lips as if she were reluctant to speak. 

“We—11, no, nothing wrong exactly. At least, I hope 
not.” 

“What do you mean, Heloise ?” Langrishe had had 
a tiring day and was in no humour for circumlocution. 

“Nothing, dear Darner, nothing at all. I think we are 
all a trifle flat after our Christmas gaieties. Dido looks 
tired out, and of course Pamela must feel things a little 
slack without Mr. Doran.” 

“Naturally she’ll miss him,” returned Langrishe shortly. 
“She’ll have to get used to that, though, for he’s not 
coming down here again for a bit.” 

“No? How wise! Was it you or she-” She broke 

off suddenly as Pamela came into the room. “Ah, here is 
Pamela, Darner. Pamela, your husband has just been 
telling me that Mr. Doran is giving up El-Armut for the 
present.” 

Pamela rang for tea, giving Darner a smile on the way, 

“I know,” she answered in quite an ordinary tone. 

“He told me himself last night that he wouldn’t be down 
again for some time. He’s got to stick to his work now. 
It’s better for him.” 

“Much better,” said Mrs. Waring significantly, with a 
glance at Langrishe. 

A little silence fell, during which Pamela busied herself 
with the tea-tray. Then Langrishe said suddenly: 

“Doran’s a decent chap. If he sticks to his job he’ll be 
a fine man one of these days.” 

Heloise Waring’s look of amused pity went unnoticed 
as he handed her a cup of tea. If he could but have read 
her thoughts, his old friendship for her would have died 
a sudden and violent death on the instant. 

“Poor Darner! That little fool has completely turned 



CROSS CURRENTS 


303 

his head. I never thought that he was of the type of 
mart complaisant!” 

Dido’s entry broke the scarcely recognized tension. 

“Hallo, Dad! It seems years since I saw you! Do 
you think you’ve earned me a new hat to-day?” She 
drew a stool near him. 

“Two if you like. The question is do you deserve 
them ?” 

Pamela, looking at father and daughter, noted the 
softening of Langrishe’s rugged face, the tenderness that 
broke up its rather grim lines, as he smiled at Dido. She 
sighed faintly. He would be vulnerable there. 

“Of course I deserve it! I’ve been angelic all day, 
haven’t I, Pam?” 

Pamela, thinking of the morning’s outburst, smiled 
non-committally. .Dido rattled on without waiting for an 
answer. At last she paused to draw breath. 

“Now you’re looking better,” she said to her father. 
“Aren’t I a nice little fresh breeze to have blown your 
horrid thundercloud away?” 

“You are,” smiled Langrishe. “I had rather a worry¬ 
ing day. I had to sack a man—a chap I had trusted!” 

“Why, Darner? What had he done?” 

“He did what I could never forgive in anyone, Pam—• 
lied to me!” 

“Just lied to you?” queried Dido, in rather an odd tone. 

“Deceived me wilfully. Had been doing so for weeks 
apparently. Looked me straight in the face, with honest, 
blue eyes, and lied to me deliberately.” 

“Honest, blue eyes? Then he must have been an 
Englishman,” said Mrs. Waring. 

“Naturally. One doesn’t expect our code from the 
natives. Treachery is the meanest of all sins, the un¬ 
forgivable one to me.” 


304 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Dad! How hard you looked when you said that! 
take off that grim expression at once.” 

“I can’t,” returned Langrishe curtly, though -with a 
fleeting smile at the spoilt child so near his knee. “I 
can’t all at once get over wilful deception in a fellow I 
trusted.” 

“No,” said Pamela unexpectedly. “It would be very 
hard to bear.” Her thoughts were with Dido, the careless 
little snatcher of forbidden fruit rather than with the real 
culprit. 

Langrishe looked across at her with a clearing brow. 
“Ah, I’m glad you’re with me there, Pam.” 

“Yes, I am. I, too, would find it very hard to forgive 
anyone who told me a deliberate lie.” 

“Even if it were someone you loved?” put in Dido 
playing a tattoo with nervous fingers on her father’s knees. 

“Especially if it were someone I loved,” said Pamela 
slowly. 

Again Langrishe’s eyes met hers with an answering 
gleam. Then he rose. 

“I have another hour’s work to get through before 
dinner,” he said. “I brought a lot of papers back with 
me.” 

“Oh, dear !” sighed Pamela. “Surely you might leave 
business behind you at the Barrage.” 

“I never ask any man to do more than I do myself. I 
expect him not to do much less, though,” Langrishe 
answered, turning to go. 

Dido got up from her stool and slipped her hand 
through her father’s arm. Pamela, who had risen when 
Langrishe did, hoping for a word alone with him, sank 
back into her chair, disappointed. 

“Ah, it is easy to see who comes first with dear 


CROSS CURRENTS 


305 

Darner,” said Mrs. Waring pleasantly as the two left 
the room together. 

Pamela bit her lip to keep herself from bursting into 
childish, unreasonable tears. 

In the hall outside, Dido brought Langrishe to a stand¬ 
still near the table where the letters were put. 

“Dad,” she said tentatively, “if you are sending this 
evening to inquire for M. de Marsac, I’ve written him a 
little note of thanks, which I should like to send, too. I 
was too—well, too flurried to remember it yesterday.” 

“Right,” said Langrishe. “I’m glad you thought of it, 
little daughter. I wrote to him myself last night.” 

“Oh, did you, Dad ? How nice of you!” Dido’s face 
lit up suddenly. Here surely would arise some new 
rapport between the two men whom she loved in her own 
way! 

“Nice? It was only common decency. Don’t you know 
how precious you are to me, child ?” said Langrishe, in a 
tone of deep feeling. “How can I feel anything but the 
sincerest gratitude towards the man who saved you from 
horrible suffering, if not worse?” His voice grew gruff, 
as it did when he was moved. 

Dido looked into his face, the rare tears trembling on 
her long lashes. 

“I’m glad you feel like that, Dad,” she said simply. 

“How else could I feel ?” repeated Langrishe, naturally, 
attributing her emotion to her love for him. He took her 
little chin in his hand and kissed the upturned face. “I’m 
glad you told me about this letter, too. It shows what 
absolute straightness there is between us. Not that you 
would ever try to deceive me, Dido. I know that perfectly 
well, child. We trust each other too much for that.” 

He smiled, cupped the little, flushed face in his two big 


306 


STOLEN HONEY 


hands, and kissed the top of the shining aureole before he 
turned into the room which he used as an office. 

Dido stood for a moment where he had left her, her 
hands clasped above a wildly beating heart. 

She had not known that anyone beside de Marsac could 
have such power to hurt her. Her father’s love and faith 
pierced and stung her as no reproaches could have done. 

For a moment she had a swift impulse to follow him, 
and tell him how badly she had behaved, how wilfully she 
had deceived him. Then memory flashed a picture of his 
stern, implacable face before her mental vision. He had 
never looked at her like that. He must never look at her 
like that. She could not bear it. She covered her face 
with her hands. Then she caught up her letter to de 
Marsac and kissed it passionately where his fingers must 
touch it in opening. 

No, if to tell the truth meant to risk losing Raoul, then 
she must go on deceiving her father to the bitter end. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


“he who loves and rides away” 

There was little enough in Dido’s letter to de Marsac— 
a mere line or two, signed, a trifle ceremoniously, in full. 

"‘I cannot bear to think you are suffering for my sake. 
I have no words with which to thank you. The few that 
I will say to you when we meet will come straight from the 
heart of yours 

“Dido Beaton Langrishe.” 

She had hesitated long over the signature; then decided 
that the short possessive pronoun might be made to mean 
everything—or nothing. She left it to him to read into 
it which he would. 

The answer came just as she was going to bed that 
night. Hassan crossed the hall with it when she went 
out to light her candle. 

She took the note from him with fingers that trembled 
suddenly, wished him a quick “good-night,” and ran up 
the stairs to her own room. 

Once safely in seclusion, she tore open a thin mauve 
envelope, faintly redolent of the bazaars, to find within 
a folded sheet bearing a correspondingly -brief answer to 
her message. 

“It is a pleasure to me to have saved you unnecessary 
suffering. Even my seclusion has its own sweetness, for in 
my enforced solitude I can think for hours of—what I will. 

“Yours in all affection, 

“Raoul Jean Marie de Marsac.” 
307 


308 


STOLEN HONEY 


Dido read the note over and over again with leaping 
pulses. It was cleverer than her own had* been in its im¬ 
plications of all or nothing. 

“In my enforced solitude I can think of—what I will.” 

That might mean anything or everything, just as she 
chose to read it. As for the ending, it was but a tran¬ 
scription of a very usual French one. It might possibly 
be intended to be taken literally, or yet it might only bear 
its surface meaning. 

Dido’s interpretations swung pendulum-wise, from one 
extreme to the other. Once she stopped to think how 
different this brief correspondence was from the little 
hastily scribbled notes which she and Tubby used to slip 
into each other’s hand at Binky’s rags. 

“Yours till hell freezes,” one of his had ended. Her 
lips curled at the remembrance. It was so typical of the 
wild absurdity of the whole affair, so deliberately put 
behind her now. 

She lay awake half the night, now scaling pinnacles of 
ecstasy, now falling into abysses of despair; her sleeping 
thoughts ended with the colour of her waking ones and 
haunted by broken fragments of dream, vague, inesti¬ 
mable losses or madly rapturous joys. 

Before the night was ended Darner Langrishe awoke 
suddenly to a thought keen as a nagging toothache. 
Pamela had not been herself that evening. Was it 
possible that she could be fretting about young Doran? 
He knew how the pain of another would touch her soft 
heart. He knew, too, the peculiar tenderness she felt for 
her old playfellow. It could be nothing more, surely? 

Yet Heloise had seemed to hint- Women were more 

observant in these matters than men. She had been quite 
right about Doran. Had she any real reason to believe 
that Pam- But no! Such a thought was absolutely 



! HE WHO LOVES AND RIDES AWAY” 309 


impossible. Pam cared for him, her husband. She was 
no hypocrite. She could not counterfeit the metal of her 
giving. It rang true, every gold coin. He would stake 
his soul on that. 

Yet there had been certain reservations. He had 
known that from the first. Suddenly he recollected the 
little scene in the train on the way up from Port Said 
to Cairo, when she had begged for time before she gave 
him all she had to give. Time—for what? For for¬ 
getting another man? No, he could not believe that. Yet 
Heloise had talked of their parting as if it had held some 
special significance. What could this parting have been 
like, that it remained in her memory so definitely that 
she felt impelled to mention it to him? 

That Heloise Waring had a sincere regard for him 
and his Langrishe honestly believed. That she could 
be venting any petty personal spite against Pamela by 
her insinuations never once entered his head. 

The whole affair jarred inexpressibly upon him. He 
wished fervently that Doran had fallen in love with 
anyone else. Were there no girls in the world for him to 
choose from, that he must needs set his affections on 
another man’s wife? Ah, but she was not married when 
he had set his affections on her. That was the rub. She 
was free, and he was free as his lack of means would 
permit. 

Thanks to Heloise Waring’s hints, Langrishe pieced 
out the whole half-sordid, half-pitiful little story. Half- 
sordid, because if Pam had really cared they could very 
well have waited a few years until Doran made good. 
Half-pitiful, because now they were all three involved in 
a tangle which there was no unravelling. 

But did Pam really care for Doran? That was the 
thought that pierced him. Once the poisoned barb was 


3 10 


STOLEN HONEY 


planted innumerable incidents, scarcely noted at the 
time, sprang back from the past, each pushing it in a little 
deeper. Looks, words, touches, silent signs of mutual 
understanding, rose up to buttress suspicion, to build it 
like a wall between him and his trust of her. 

Not that he actually distrusted Pamela. The thing 
was too formless for that, as yet, but the very first breath 
of suspicion tarnished the clear shield of his faith in her, 
even if it faded away immediately again. 

How emphatic she had been this evening in her con¬ 
demnation of those who deceived the people who trusted 
them! He had welcomed her words then as the echo of 
his own code of honour. They came back to him now as 
the reluctant prickings of an uneasy conscience. 

He turned and tossed restlessly. Good God, where 
were his thoughts tending? Into what morass of doubt 
were his uneasy feet leading him? He wished with all his 
heart that Heloise Waring had minded her own business. 

For the first time in his life a doubt of her perfect tact 
crossed his mind. She had not meant to make mischief, 
of course, but she might just as easily have let well alone. 
To sow suspicion between husband and wife, however 
innocently, is an ill deed, and may bear an evil harvest. 

So his thoughts spun to an early waking and a return 
of that grim expression which Dido had so deplored. 

He was downstairs at work in his office before Pamela 
appeared. When they met at breakfast the inflexible line 
of his jaw frightened her a little; it looked so stern and 
hard. It seemed to set her apart from him at the very 
moment when she most longed to draw closer. 

She would have given a good deal to be able to discuss 
Dido’s problem with him. She felt she stood too near it 
herself to be able to judge its various aspects accurately. 
She wanted to hear his man’s point of view, to lean on his 


“HE WHO LOVES AND RIDES AWAY” 311 


judgment, to find out what he really thought of the whole 
affair. 

But, of course, it was quite impossible. She could not 
consult him about the thing at all unless she were at 
liberty to tell him all, and as to that her lips were sealed. 

She stole a tentative glance at him during breakfast, 
wondering what had brought that hard look to his dear 
face. 

It was partly what she called his “disparity look” to 
herself. It came sometimes when he was thinking of the 
gap in their ages. But surely that could not be worrying 
him now? She thought that she had exorcized that par¬ 
ticular little demon long ago. 

She followed him out in the hall for a last word. He 
went over to the corner where his hat and covert coat 
hung and took them down in silence. 

“Let me help you,” she said, but the coat was already 
on before she could give assistance. 

She turned away her head a little chilled, a little dis¬ 
appointed. Why was he so aloof? Why did he keep 
her at such a distance ? She made another effort. Going 
up to him she put her hands on his shoulders. 

“Is there anything worrying you, Darner?” she asked 
gently. 

In the upturned face, a little paler than usual, a little 
darker beneath the blue eyes, he read wifely duty, wifely 
solicitude—no more. What else could he expect from a 
girl fourteen years his junior? 

“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” he returned shortly. 

“Why? That’s an unusual thing for you.” 

“Most unusual.” 

“Were you worrying about that person that deceived 
you ?” 

Langrishe hesitated. He had been worrying over a 


3 12 


STOLEN HONEY 


person whom he thought might have deceived him. By 
the light of day, so often a swift disperser of the shadowy 
doubts of night, he saw nothing but a crystal clarity in 
Pamela’s blue eyes. He had been a fool, and worse than 
a fool, to harbour such thoughts of her even for an in¬ 
stant. No, whatever happened, Pam would tell him the 
truth. He knew that! 

Suddenly a mocking memory came to him of eyes, 
very much the colour of Pam’s—a coincidence which, in 
fact, had drawn him instinctively to their owner—eyes 
which had looked straight into his while the lips beneath 
them mocked him with lies. 

“It’s always worrying to be deceived,” he returned 
evading direct answer. 

Pamela drew away a little, but his hands slipped to 
her wrists and held her there facing him. 

“What about yourself, Pam?” he countered. “You 
don’t look very bright this morning. Didn’t you sleep 
well, either?” 

“Oh, quite,” she answered. “Not as well as usual, 
though.” 

“Not worrying about Doran’s troubles—eh?” 

“Not really.” 

“Or about the person with whom he is in love?” 

Langrishe’s eyes were searching. 

Pamela reddened slightly under his scrutiny as she 
admitted: 

“Well, perhaps a little.” 

“Try to forget it, Pam.” 

“I wish I could,” she answered, stifling a sigh. 

“Is it so hard, Pam?” 

“I’m afraid it is, rather.” 

He dropped her hands. 

“I’m sorry.” 


“HE WHO LOVES AND RIDES AWAY” 313 


“So am I,” she cried, wishing that she could tell him 
all. She went closer to him and leaned her head against 
a rather unresponsive arm. “Oh, Darner, how nice and 
big you are! One feels so safe with you.” 

“I hope you’ll always feel that, my dear,” he said 
gravely. 

He stooped to kiss her forehead, put her gently away 
from him, and went. 

Pamela stood there, bewildered and a trifle resent¬ 
ful. 

“Why is he so cold ?” she wondered. “What has 
happened to make him so cold, so aloof? Have I done 
anything? But no—what could I possibly have done? 
I can’t think of a single thing. I’ve been positively hypo¬ 
critical to Mrs. Waring just to please him. I’ve tried to 
be as much of a mother to his child as she’ll let me. 
How have I failed him?” 

It was the burden of her thoughts for the rest of the 
morning: “How have I failed him? How have I failed 
him?” It rang in her brain like the melancholy burden 
of a song—a tormenting question to which she could find 
no adequate answer. 

Dido, too, was more elusive than usual. She spent the 
morning in a deck-chair on the loggia outside her bedroom, 
reading, smoking, and dropping into fitful dozes. She 
did not appear until luncheon-time, when she shook off 
her lethargy, brushed her red-gold halo until it shone, 
and went downstairs, eager for the breath of life which 
Langrishe’s coming always brought into that feminine 
atmosphere. 

To-day, beside the expected waft, he brought a bolt 
from the blue. 

“Guess whom I met this morning,” he said; then 
without waiting for conjectures: “De Marsac.” 


314 


STOLEN HONEY 


“M. de Marsac!” from Pamela and Heloise, in varying 
tones. 

“He's well again, then?”—in a rather choked voice 
from Dido. 

“He looked a bit pale,” answered Langrishe. “He was 
on his way to catch the Cairo train. He had had bad 
news from France. His father is dying, and he was 
cabled for. He asked me to make his adieux to you all, 
and say that he hoped to see you again on his return to 
El-Armut.” 

There was an instant's silence. 

“He is coming back again, then?” murmured Dido, 
in a tone that betrayed to Pamela the anguish of her doubt 
by the measure of its relief. “Did he say when?” 

“No. He was in a hurry to catch his train. He 
hadn't much time. He seemed naturally upset, poor 
chap!” 

Dido's eyes flashed a look at Pamela, which said as 
plainly as if she had spoken: 

“This is the second time in my life when somebody's 
dying father has played me a nasty trick!” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


HELOISE SOWS ANOTHER SEED 

“Pam, are you keen on a siesta?” asked Dido later, 
when Mrs. Waring had retired and Langrishe had gone 
back to his work. 

“Not particularly. Why?” 

“Because if I sit alone in my room and brood any 
longer I’ll go mad.” She looked about her restlessly. 

“Oh, you mustn’t do that,” said Pamela, in her most 
comfortable common-sense tone. “What’s the alter¬ 
native ?” 

Dido’s face seemed smaller and her eyes larger than 
ever. Pamela had a quick thought: 

“The elf has found a human soul, and it hurts. . . . 
Poor kiddy!” 

“Will you come and play singles with me on the 
Durrants’ court? Mrs. Durrant said we might use it 
whenever we liked.” 

“Willingly,” Pamela returned. “But we mustn’t play 
tennis immediately after lunch. Come up to my room 
and lie down on Darner’s bed for ten minutes or so.” 
She slipped her hand through the girl’s arm and moved 
towards the stairs, taking courage when she found that 
she was not repulsed. 

“Very well. Anything’s better than being alone, 
though I don’t want to talk,” Dido said significantly. 

“All right, you needn’t.” 

Dido looked curiously round the bedroom when she 
entered. Reft as it was of its couch and long mirror for 
3i5 


3i6 


STOLEN HONEY 


Mrs. Waring’s benefit it had rather a bare aspect, holding 
as it did, little furniture beside the twin beds with their 
snowy mosquito-curtains and Pamela’s wardrobe and 
dressing-table. 

The walls were tinted a cool grey-green, the windows 
curtained austere in white: there was a freshness, a 
simplicity about it all that pleased Dido’s fastidious taste. 

“This room is like you, somehow, Pam,” she said, 
kicking off her shoes, and tucking away the curtains of 
her father’s bed before she lay on it. 

“You like it ?” answered Pamela, pleased. 

“I like it for you. I shouldn’t for myself.” She lay 
on her side, one small hand under her cheek, and stared 
at Pamela with great questioning eyes. “It’s strange to 
think of the secret lives we all lead—you, Dad, Heloise, 
myself—everyone; the secret, inner life that no one 
knows anything about except yourself, and sometimes one 
other. Even that other knows only a little bit of it, just 
the part you share with him, while all you know of his is 
the part he shares with you. . . . Don’t you feel that, 
Pam ? Don’t you sometimes want to read Dad’s thoughts 
and know what he’s really thinking ?” 

“Indeed I do,” sighed Pamela, wishing that such 
powers of perception were hers at that very moment. 
She would have given much to pierce the cloud that 
had arisen between them, impalpable, impenetrable: too 
vague to be tangible, yet real enough to blot out true 
understanding. 

“Dad is a dear, until you come up against that granite 
streak in him,” continued Dido musingly. “Have you 
come up against it yet, Pam ?” 

“Oh, no,” answered Pamela, impelled by some queer 
sense of loyalty to deny her own misgivings. 

“Nor I. I don’t want to, either,” cried Dido, turning 


HELOISE SOWS ANOTHER SEED 317 


over on her back, and throwing out her arms with a great 
sigh. . . . She detached her mind from her own con¬ 
cerns for a fleeting moment to wonder what this cool, bare 
room could tell of Pamela and her father, when they were 
shut away from the rest of the world and left here alone, 
just man and woman together. . . . Then her thoughts 
switched back to herself again. “Here am I, with my 
secret life gnawing at my very vitals like some hungry 
beast, and I simply can’t ask Pam for the sympathy which 
I know she’s longing to give. Probably she’s aching to say 
something kind to me now, but she’s afraid to venture. 
Pve made her afraid; but perhaps it’s just as well. I 
won’t be talked at! I won’t be questioned. . . . Not 
that she’d really understand!” The old egoistic vaunt of 
Youth voiced itself. “No one could really understand 
how I feel, how I suffer!” 

At last Dido’s need of reassurance became too poign¬ 
ant to be held in check any longer. 

“Pam, do you really think he’ll come back?” she asked 
in a small voice. 

Pamela held her breath for an instant, surprised at this 
unexpected demand for sympathy. Then she answered 
carefully: “Didn’t your father say that he said he was 
coming back?” 

“Oh, but it’s easy for people to say things,” murmured 

Dido impatiently. “If he doesn’t come back-” she 

broke off with a sigh, and bit her lip. 

“If he doesn’t come back, perhaps he’ll write,” sug¬ 
gested Pamela against her better judgment. 

“Oh, no, he won’t.” Dido gave a queer little smile. 
“He’s not the sort of a man to be carried away at a dis¬ 
tance. It needs personal contact to move Raoul de Mar- 
sac.” 

Pamela started. It was such a bitter little piece of 


318 


STOLEN HONEY 


knowledge from such young lips. Then she said tenta¬ 
tively: “If physical contact is all that moves him it 
merely means a fire that would quickly burn itself out. 
Would you ever be really happy with a man of that type, 
Dido?” 

Dido made a fierce, inarticulate exclamation. 

“I’d rather be unhappy with him than happy with 
anyone else,” she cried. “So that’s that!” She sat up 
and slipped off the bed. “Come on, Pam. I must have 
some exercise.” 

“Very well.” Pamela got up, too. She wished with 
all her heart that she could have given the girl some 
comfort, but the whole affair filled her with genuine 
uneasiness. She saw light nowhere. Even if de Marsac 
came back and proposed to Dido, a marriage with him 
scarcely seemed to presage happiness for the girl. Even 
Dido herself seemed to have some premonition of this, 
in her ignorance, as it seemed to Pamela, she was willing 
to face it, not knowing in the least all that an unhappy 
marriage might imply. Pamela, thinking of her own 
good fortune, gave a little shuddering sigh at the mere 
thought of what might have been. 

Her hospitable instincts stopped her on the threshold 
just as they were going out. 

“What about Mrs. Waring? I quite forgot her.” 

“Oh, hang Louisa!” cried Dido impatiently. “We’ll 
be back long before she comes downstairs.” 

“I must leave a message with Hassan. It would seem 
so discourteous if she came down and found us gone 
without a word.” 

“Very well, but don’t delay,” Dido admonished her. 

The girl was longing for violent exercise, longing to 
be so tired that she could neither feel nor think. Every 
fibre, every pulse cried aloud for Raoul de Marsac. She 


HELOISE SOWS ANOTHER SEED 319 

felt a physical ache at the thought of his having left her 
without a word: an ache which must be numbed at any 
cost. 

So insistent was this need that she kept Pamela playing 
longer than either of them realized, and thus it was that 
Langrishe on his return from the Barrage found once 
again the drawing-room occupied only by Heloise Waring*. 

His first impulse, and one of which he felt half 
ashamed, was to turn and flee. The power of association 
aroused a sense of uneasiness in him, which acted upon 
his instinct before his reason became aware of it and re¬ 
jected it. To scotch so inhospitable a sensation he as¬ 
sumed a greater warmth than he felt. 

“Hallo, Heloise, my girls seem to be neglecting their 
duty. They shouldn’t have left you alone like this,” he 
said genially. 

“I should be sorry, indeed, to think that either of 
your girls, as you call them, should look upon entertain¬ 
ing me as a duty,” returned Mrs. Waring, with a sweet 
smile. “No, indeed, Darner, I am quite capable of enter¬ 
taining myself for a while. 'My mind to me a kingdom 
is/ you know.” 

“Good,” he said, sinking into a deep chair near her, 
and putting his hand across his forehead. 

“You’re tired,” she said with quick sympathy. 

“Just a bit, perhaps.” 

“Pamela oughtn’t to go off and keep you waiting for 
your tea like this. Shall I ring?” 

“No, we’ll wait. They’ll be back in a minute.” 

“Young people will be young people, I suppose,” sighed 
Mrs. Waring, tolerantly. “These violent games never 
appealed to me, though. I always preferred quieter 
pleasures.” 

“There’s nothing to beat a good game of tennis,” re- 


320 


STOLEN HONEY 


turned Langrishe, roused to inexplicable 'contradiction. 

“Ah, it's an excellent game, no doubt,” said Mrs. War¬ 
ing. She laid down her work and bent a little closer 
to him. “Tell me, dear old friend, while we have' a 
moment to orurselvers, was Pamela able to throw any 
light on that Cornish episode?” 

“No,” answered Langrishe shortly. “She wasn’t there 
last sumnrer at all.” 

“But she told me distinctly that she was.” 

“She said that she meant the summer be'fore.” 

Mrs. Waring’s lips curled incredulously. “I am afraid 
our dear Pamela was quibbling, not to put too fine a 
point on it.” 

“Pam’s incapable of telling a lie,” said Langrishe 
curtly. 

“But of course, Darner. I never even suggested such 
a thing,” returned Mrs. Waring with a hurt look. “For 
some reason best known to herself, the dear girl evi¬ 
dently wishes to confuse the date of her visit to Corn¬ 
wall.” 

“I don’t see why she should.” 

“Nor I,” answered Heloise sweetly. “It seems mean¬ 
ingless, doesn’t it?” 

“Absolutely.” 

The entry of a breathless apologetic Pamela and a 
coolly nonchalant Dido r put a stop to any further privacy 
of conversation. Mrs. Waring, glancing from one face 
to the other, wondered if her shot had told. It was get¬ 
ting rather boring here. Darner had grown stupid. 
There was no other amusement at hand. The young 
men buzzed round Dido like bees round a honeypot. 
Surely there must be metal more attractive up at Luxor, 
whither the smart crowd had probably fled by this time 
to escape the dampness erf a Cairo Christmas. The Tal- 


HELOISE SOWS ANOTHER SEED 321 


bots should be there by now, and Mrs. Talbot had rather 
a knack of collecting amusing people. It was really time 
to make a move. She could not be bothered with the 
Langrishes’ affairs any longer. If they chose to get them 
into a tangle they must unravel it themselves without her 
assistance. Dido, too, like her dead friend’s child! She 
had all the rriodern self-confidence and self-assurance; no 
pretty, modest, clinging ways at all. And between her 
and Pamela they hadn’t even a maid! No, she had had 
enough of roughing it on the river, as she would phrase 
it presently. She longed for some of the comforts of 
civilization again. 

Her resolution once formed, she waited only for a 
pause in the conversation to make it known. At last it 
came. She seized it. 

“Will you look up the trains to Luxor for me, like a 
dear?'’ she said suddenly to Langrishe. 

He started. “But surely you’re not thinking of leaving 
us yet. Why, you’ve only just come.” He shot a quick 
glance at Pamela, who hastened to back him up. 

“Yes, indeed. Is there any real need for you to go so 
soon ?” 

Dido’s sotto voce —“Can’t you go ? Must you stay ?”— 
fortunately escaped Mrs. Waring’s hearing as she an¬ 
swered : 

“It is very sweet of you, dear people, to want me, but 
I warned you that I was only a bird of passage on my way 
to Luxor. I promised to join the Talbots there for the 
New Year’s Eve festivities. There is to be a delightful 
affair at the Winter Palace Hotel, I believe.” 

“I’m afraid we can’t offer any counter attractions to 
that,” said Langrishe, smiling. “I don’t like to urge you 
to stop on in a dull little place like this, but you know how 
very welcome you are here, Heloise.” 


322 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Ah, yes, I know,” murmured Mrs. Waring, with a 
sweeping glance which included the whole party. 

Then a sudden thought struck her: a sudden doubt of 
her own personal powers of attraction. She had not been 
a conspicuous success at El-Armut. Not even one of the 
young men had fallen a victim to her pseudo-maternal 
fascinations. Mrs. Talbot, too, had scarcely the power 
of forming such a circle as she desired. 

How would it be if she renewed the invitation which 
she had given to Dido in Cairo? How would it be if she 
took the girl on to Luxor with her ? She was chic, bright, 
with the modern hardness, yet undoubtedly attractive. 
She would always have a crowd of men in her train, men 
who would come to Heloise Waring for balm and 
sympathy when suffering from the smart of her little 
claws. There are always privileges for the chaperon of 
a pretty girl, and once away from Pamela’s influence she 
would take her rightful place in the dear child’s affection. 
It was worth considering. But, no, on second thoughts, 
there was no time for consideration. It must be now or 
never. After all she need not keep her any longer than 
she wished. She could make her invitation a short one, 
and prolong it afterwards if she liked. After all, she 
owed the Langrishe family a good deal of hospitality, one 
Way or another. 

She turned to Darner with a smile. 

“I have been wondering if you would let Dido come 
back to Luxor with me for these New Year’s festivities,” 
she said. “If you can spare her, I am sure she’d enjoy it, 
and, of course, I should delight in having her. What do 
you say, Dido?” 

Pamela felt a prick. “Why couldn’t he spare her? 
Aren’t I here?” 

Dido turned grateful eyes for once on her mother’s old 


HELOISE SOWS ANOTHER SEED 323 


friend. “How ripping!” she cried. “It is the thing of all 
others I’d like. Of course I may go. Mayn’t I, Dad?” 

Langrishe shook his head at her. 

“In su'ch a hurry to leave me already, when you’ve only 
just come out? Ungrateful monkey!” 

Only Pamela discerned the hurt beneath the light tone, 
and that queer, nasty, feeling pricked at her heart again. 
Was it, could it possibly be jealousy, that meanest, pettiest 
of vices ? She flushed, unnoticed. 

“It isn’t that, you know, Dad,” Dido answered eagerly. 
“But it seems a chance in a hundred. A chance not to be 
missed. It’s really topping of you, Heloise. I’d simply 
love to go.” 

“We may consider it settled then,” said Mrs. Waring 
sweetly, smiling again at Langrishe. “I’ll take great 
care of your treasure, dear old friend, and send her back 
to you quite soon again. You surely can exist for a week 
or so without her.” 

“Well, naturally, considering that I existed previously 
under the same circumstances for five years,” returned 
Langrishe, a trifle dryly. Then, with a slight mental 
effort which he trusted was unobserved by anyone but 
himself, he turned to his wife: “It will be a second 
honeymoon for Pam and me.” 

Pamela smiled back rather mechanically, the while her 
heart protested: “He didn’t mean that a bit.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


GOOD ADVICE 

At the core of Pamela’s mingled feelings was one drop 
of balm, the unexpected possibilities of what Darner had 
called their second honeymoon. Once she had him to her¬ 
self again without the intervention of constant comers and 
goers, surely she could soon thaw the slight coolness which 
had arisen between them with the warmth of her love. 

While other eyes watched them, inimically critical as 
Mrs. Waring’s, amusedly observant as Dido’s, that was 
impossible. Left alone, they would draw nearer together 
than ever. Of that she felt sure. Also she knew that 
this infinitesimal rift, whatever it was, must not be 
allowed to widen. That, with a man erf Darner’s calibre, 
would be fatal, she felt intuitively. He had no aptitude 
for leaping chasms. His code, in all its rigidity, had 
stiffened him too much for that, except perhaps the one 
of age, and that their mutual love had bridged, making 
passage easy. 

She waited the day of departure hopefully. She felt 
that it was well that the girl’s thoughts should be dis¬ 
tracted as much as possible from the obsession of her 
passion for de Marsac. 

Surely, among all the nice men she was bound to meet, 
up at Luxor—but the thought trailed off to nothingness 
in Pamela’s mind, as she suddenly realized that in 
daughter as in father ran the same unmistakable granite 
streak. No other man could, as yet, erase the memory of 
324 


GOOD ADVICE 


325 

de Marsac from Dido’s heart. She felt that sne would 
wrong the girl by even thinking it possible. 

Dido herself was in the wildest of spirits at the thought 
of the change. 

To leave El-Armut, already so stored with memories 
that burnt or stung or thrilled, for any new place, presaged 
relief for the ache that at times seemed almost unbearable. 
She was too young to realize that wherever she went she 
must take her hurt with her so long as, to paraphrase the 
Elizabethan poet, “She was herself her own fever and 
pain.” How could she flee from “Love’s sickness” when 
she carried it with her ? She was paying a little now for 
her stolen fruit, if she had but known it; though con¬ 
sciously she would never have admitted this. 

She clung to Pamela for a moment in her own room 
just before she went. 

“You’ll send on any letters that come at once, Pam, 
won’t you? And write instantly if you hear anything. 
Promise.” 

“I will, of course. And Dido-” 

“Yes?” said Dido distrustfully. 

“Don’t set your heart too much on M. de Marsac, 
just in case-” 

“I wonder if you’ve been absolutely deaf to all I’ve told 
you, or are you merely stupid?” interrupted Dido hotly. 

Pamela bit her lips. “Merely stupid, I’m afraid. . . . 
It’s only that I don’t want you to be hurt.” 

“I’m hurt already,” returned Dido, relenting a little. 
“Cheerio, Mammy Pam. You can have Tubby down to 
play with once I’m gone.” 

“Indeed, I don’t want to see him,” Pamela declared, 
“unless ’twas to give him a great scolding. Have a 
good time now, ’child, and forget all your worries.” 

Even as she spoke she felt that she was giving super- 



326 


STOLEN HONEY 


fluous advice, that Dido would always have a good time, 
irrespective of consequence or circumstance, and that she 
would let nothing worry her that she could possibly help. 

Mrs. Waring’s valediction was of a slightly different 
nature. 

When Pamela went to her room to see if she could help 
in packing, she found that it was finished already and 
that Mrs. Waring was in the act of putting on her veil. 

She thanked Pamela profusely for her belated offer, 
while making her feel that she might have thought of it 
a little sooner. 

“You see, I am such an old traveller, I like to be ready 
in plenty of time/’ she went on. “When you have had 
as much experience as I have you will realize what an 
infinity of trouble it saves. But Rome wasn’t built in a 
day, neither does experience come with a single journey.” 

“No indeed,” answered Pam politely, wondering why 
she was being treated to these platitudes, and feeling a 
deep inward thankfulness at the thought of her guest’s 
imminent departure. 

Perhaps the spirit of the “shadowy third” which 
Heloise Waring seemed always to evoke, would vanish 
with her. Pamela devoutly hoped so. 

“Of course I am much older than you are, dear 
Pamela,” Mrs. Waring went on, pinning back her flowing 
veil and standing a little away from the mirror to see the 
effect, “though not quite as ancient as you supposed” 
—(“Ah, that forty evidently rankles still,” Pamela 
thought)—“and you will not take it amiss if I give you a 
little advice.” She paused. 

“No,” murmured Pamela, monosyllabic for once in her 
endeavour to be polite. Advice was the last thing she 
desired from Mrs. Waring. 

“Dear Darner is the best of men, but all men are a little 


GOOD ADVICE 


327 

difficult at times. You will be wise to be judicious in 
your management of him, Pamela-” 

“I haven’t the least intention of managing Darner, 
thanks.” 

“Young wives and middle-aged husbands!” sighed 
Mrs. Waring, readjusting her veil. “A difficult position, 
especially when there are young men about.” 

“The young men here-” 

“Ah, but not only here. Anywhere,” said Mrs. War¬ 
ing, retreating into a skilful vagueness. “But that wasn’t 
what I really wanted to say. It was only a side issue as 
it were. Darner tells me that you are going to stay out 
here for the summer.” 

“Yes. He thinks it will be all right for us, probably.” 

‘Hot weather in the East has a very relaxing effect. 
You will do well to take what exercise you can, and stick 
*0 your corsets.” 

“Stick to my corsets ?” 

“Yes. There is nothing more demoralizing for a 
woman than to leave off her corsets. It seems to unbrace 
her mentally as well as physically. It is fatal, especially 
in the East.” Her tone held a rather disproportionate 
seriousness. 

“But I never wear any,” said Pamela, smiling in spite 
of herself. “Only those sports things. I’m afraid I have 
no chance!” 

Mrs. Waring sighed. The girl was hopelessly friv¬ 
olous. She would not take the word of warning so tact¬ 
fully conveyed in sartorial guise. She must have known 
that the corsets were only a symbol: a little allegorical 
sign-post, as it were. Poor Darner! What a marriage! 

Langrishe himself saw them off by the early train. 
Pamela, by special request of Dido, did not go to the 
station. 



328 


STOLEN HONEY 


“It's all right having dad. He can see about the 
luggage and all that,” she declared. "‘But you’d just 
stand about racking your brains for things to say, and 
not finding* them, and we’d be bored, and you’d be bored, 
and we’d all be indecently glad when the train went oif, 
so what’s the use?” 

Pamela, acknowledging the truth, stayed at home, 
feeling a strange sense of flatness when they had gone 
which took the first sparkle from her original sense of re¬ 
lief. 

The house seemed empty and full of shadows, in spite 
of the brilliant sunshine outside. A crisp wind blew, 
ruffling the river to a steely brightness; and sending drifts 
of white cloud scudding across a vivid sky. 

At the end of the garden the sakkiyeh creaked and little 
Ali, lying along the shaft in his one scanty blue garment, 
sent forth an occasional burst of song as he urged the 
patient fawn bullock on its monotonous round. 

For a moment Pamela felt fretfully as if she were 
rather like the bullock, daily setting in motion an endless 
chain of little duties which led to nothing beyond. Then, 
with her usual zest for metaphor as she plunged deeper 
into the heart of this one, she saw that the bullock’s task, 
though monotonous, had a beautiful end in view, the irri¬ 
gation of the rich Egyptian soil with the fertile Nile 
water which made, as Heloise Waring had so poetically 
put it, the desert blossom like a rose. 

Was not she, likewise, making a garden for Darner 
where there had been, on his own telling, but a bare com¬ 
pound before? He was a man of few words, taking for 
granted in others what he wished them to take for granted 
in himself, and Pamela was beginning to learn what some 
of his eloquent silences meant. Being a woman, she 
always wanted to translate them into terms of speech, not 


GOOD ADVICE 


329 

realizing that like other foreign tongues, they might lose 
considerably in the exchange. 

There need be no barriers between them now that 
Heloise Waring and Dido had gone. No necessary re¬ 
straints and constrictions of speech such as the presence 
of others imposes. The whistle of the departing train, 
shrilling across Ali’s song, seemed to Pamela as the blow¬ 
ing of the trumpet that shattered the walls of Jericho. 

Her spirits rose at the thought. She seemed to see the 
shadows which had stolen about the house, dim shadows 
of passions which she had sensed without actually per¬ 
ceiving, creeping out of their corners to fall vanquished 
by the broad sword of sunlight. 

She changed into one of her prettiest frocks for lunch¬ 
eon, and re-arranged the flowers on the table. 

She had ordered Darner’s favourite dishes. It should 
be a little feast, their “second honeymoon” luncheon. 

At the sound of his key in the door she ran out into the 
hall to meet him, but stopped, feeling an altogether dispro¬ 
portionate sense of disappointment when she saw that he 
was not alone. Mr. Marshall was with him. 

The spring died out of her step as she crossed the hall 
towards the two men, and held out her hand to the guest. 

“Will you tell them to hurry with lunch, Pam? 
Marshall and I have a tough bit of business to tackle 
afterwards,” was Darner’s greeting. 

“I think it must be ready now. I’ll ring,” she said, 
rather flatly. 

The walls of Jericho hadn’t fallen after all. The little 
feast was no feast after all. It was just an ordinary 
luncheon, to be hurried over as quickly as possible so that 
Darner might continue, even more technically, the conver¬ 
sation which he carried on with Mr. Marshall throughout 
the disappointing meal. The others might just as well 


330 


STOLEN HONEY 


have stayed; better, in fact, for then there would have 
been someone to talk to. Pamela’s spirits sank. 

As a finishing touch, Damer, leaning across the table to 
emphasize a point, knocked down and broke one of her 
slender-stemmed Venetian vases, thus ruining the festal 
decoration. She rose, leaving Hassan to clear away the 
debris. Langrishe’s discussion with his colleague lasted 
on until tea-time, and was continued afterwards, to the 
accompaniment of cigars which made Pamela’s head ache. 

She went up to her own room and out on the loggia, 
drinking in the fresh air without realizing how cold the 
atmosphere was until she felt thoroughly chilled. 

She was shivering when Damer came up to dress. 

“Really, Pam, you ought to have more sense at your 
age,” he cried, when he heard what she had done. “A 
hot bath and bed is the only place for you. Perhaps 
you’ll stave off a bad chill that way.” 

Pamela, longing for the sympathy which Damer felt, 
but masked under a cross uneasiness lest she should be ill, 
moved slowly towards the bathroom. 

"I’ll turn on your bath,” said Damer. “You slip out of 
your clothes, and it will be ready by then. Did I tell you 
that I’m keeping Marshall on to dinner? There are still 
some points we have to discuss.” 

“Ah, then I shan’t miss anything,” murmured Pamela 
flatly. 

Langrishe smiled. “No, you poor kid. It’s been dull 
for you all day, I’m afraid, and without the others, too.” 

She longed to tell him that she didn’t want the others, 
that it was only him she wanted, but he was gone. Al¬ 
ready she heard the trickle of the bath-water. 

Even when he brought up a dainty tray later, with soup 
and fruit to tempt her, she found it hard to get nearer to 
him. 


GOOD ADVICE 


33i 


He kissed her hot forehead, and said he would make her 
take some quinine presently, but when he brought it up 
she was asleep and he did not awaken her. He stood 
looking at the flushed face framed in its dark silky hair 
for a moment before he turned away with a sigh. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


SECOND BEST 

Pamela, being young and strong, quickly threw off the 
effects of her chill. Beyond a touch of headache and a 
slight sense of lassitude, she felt none the worse the next 
morning. 

Damer made her stay in bed for breakfast and waited 
on her himself with a touch of solicitude added to his old 
tenderness. 

“I can’t afford to have you laid up, you know,” he said 
before he left for the Barrage. “The place is a wilder- 
ness without you.” 

“You really want me then?” said Pamela, rather 
wistfully. 

“Of course I want you,” said Damer with a reassuring 
roughness. 

She did not know that her question pricked him un¬ 
easily. Was she comparing his need of her with an¬ 
other’s? Was she buttressing her sense of duty with his 
claims? “God knjows I want her more than anyone else 
could,” he thought. “But I don’t want to frighten her 
into the arms of another man.” 

Therefore he used restraint where emotion would have 
served him better, and curbing where loosing might have 
advantaged. 

So the days sped, outwardly happy, inwardly filled with 
a cloud of disappointments for each. 

Damer made his wife his first consideration, rode with 
her, planned little excursions for her, arranged tennis for 
332 


SECOND BEST 


333 


her—but never alone. From something in Pamela’s eyes 
—a look at once appealing and apprehensive—he shrank. 
At the back of his mind he had a haunting fear that once 
they touched intimacy again she might tell him of her love 
for Doran. That he could not stand at any cost. He was 
a man of strong passions, firmly curbed. He did not 
mind so much knowing of Doran’s feeling for Pamela, 
but if Pamela revealed hers for Doran he felt that it would 
make him see red, make him want to kill the boy. Silence 
was at once his weapon, his shield and buckler. There¬ 
fore Pamela, sweet, entrancingly sweet and desirable as 
she was, must be kept more or less at arm’s length, lest 
if she came too close, she might whisper in his ear that 
which would lead to their ultimate undoing. 

Pamela, intuitive as she was, sensed his attitude without 
being able to understand it. It was as if some transparent 
barrier, tangible and clear as glass, had arisen between 
them. They could see each other through it, hear each 
other, come quite near each other, but they could not 
touch. She longed desperately for some weapon with 
which to shatter it, but found that, despite its hyaline 
quality, it was made of substance far stronger than the 
glass which it resembled. 

They lived on the surface of life, as so many people do 
quite happily, and to all outward appearances their 
relations were almost ideal. But not to the two who knew 
how different they once had been, how different they still 
might be. Having tasted the best, the second best had 
but little savour. 

The days spun into weeks, and still Dido showed no sign 
of return. She was having a ripping time, she wrote, and 
Luxor was a topping place. They could expect her when 
they saw her—no sooner. 

Langrishe passed the letter on to Pamela. 


334 


STOLEN HONEY 


“It's dull here without the child,” he said, feeling that 
Dido would be an additional help towards a resistance that 
wore rather thin at times. 

“I’m sorry you find it so.” 

"Well, you must admit that she livens things up a bit. 
Still, one can’t expect her to leave Luxor for a dull little 
place like this.” 

“Why not? If you had always expected more of 
Dido you might have got more from her,” returned Pam¬ 
ela rather tartly. “Instead of which, you’ve spoilt her so 
utterly that her one idea is to take, take, take, without 
giving anything in return.” 

“I don’t agree with you, Pamela,” said Langrishe, 
stiffening at once at disparagement of his “ewe lamb.” 
“Dido gives herself, her gaiety, her brightness in return 
for whatever she may get out of life.” 

His altered tone flourished a danger signal for Pamela. 
Surely he could not think she was jealous of the girl? 
She must disabuse his mind as soon as possible. 

“Dido has great possibilities,” she said. “That’s why 
I get so angry at seeing the wrong ones developed and 
the right ones stunted. I’m too ignorant myself, I’m 
afraid, to know how to manage her, or even help her.” 

“Shall I give you ‘an advice/ Pam?” said Langrishe 
on a gentler note. “Don’t try to manage her at all!” 

“That’s been my plan up to the present,” Pamela ad¬ 
mitted rather ruefully. “But I don’t know how it has 
worked.” 

“It’s worked very well. Dido has a great opinion of 
her Mammy Pam.” His tone softened as it always did 
when he spoke of his child; as it used to when he spoke 
to her. 

“Will it ever soften for me again?” Pamela wondered 
with a sick throb of misgiving. 


SECOND BEST 


335 


Her thoughts turned to her own people in these trying 
days. She longed to see a familiar face, anyone from the 
past, that now seemed so remote, so tranquil in its happy 
monotony. Not that she would have changed back again 
had she been given the choice. Womanhood had opened 
her eyes to a wider vista than any she had looked upon at 
Carrigrennan. She would go forward on her appointed 
way, clear-sighted, facing with courage any suffering 
which it might involve—forward, for better, for 
worse. 

By a natural transition her mind switched from her 
unavailable family to a very available link with the past 
who was close at hand. 

Now that Dido was safely in Luxor the embargo on Tim 
Doran’s visits might be removed. It could not possibly 
hurt him to run down and see her for an hour or two just 
between‘•trains. She felt that the sight of his freckled 
face and humorously sympathetic eyes would be like 
water in a dry land. 

Acting on impulse she wrote to him, telling him of 
Dido’s departure for Luxor, and saying that she would be 
very glad to see him whenever he could conscientiously 
spare the time to run down to El-Armut. 

Being no letter-writer, Doran characteristically tele¬ 
graphed back his answer: “Right-ho! —Tim.” The 
wire arrived shortly after Langrishe had left one morn¬ 
ing, and Pamela, reading it, with a smile, crumpled it up 
and threw it into the fireplace. 

As usual, Langrishe brought men back both to lunch 
and dinner, and Pamela forgot to mention the matter to 
him. She went to bed before he did that night, leaving 
him in the drawing-room, and he was standing by the 
fireplace, smoking a last cigar, when the little ball of 
pinkish paper in the grate caught his eye. Stooping to 


336 


STOLEN HONEY 


pick it up and toss it to where a fire of logs was already 
laid, he saw that it was a telegram. 

“I didn’t chuck a wire in there, did I ?” he said to him¬ 
self, absently smoothing out the flimsy sheet. 

The two words— “Right-ho! — Tim ”—sprang at him 
as if written in letters of fire. 

What did they mean? Had Pamela been wiring to 
Doran, and was this the answer? 

It was an obvious answer, a glad accession to some 
request. What request? 

He crumpled the thing up again, and flung it from him 
as if it had stung him. 

What was Pamela asking of Doran? Why had she 
wired or written to him? Why had she said nothing to 
him about it? If the thing had some simple, natural 
explanation, why had she not told him about it? Why 
had she kept it secret from him? 

In the swift surge of jealousy which flooded him, Lan- 
grishe lost sight of the fact that he had scarcely had time 
for a word in private with Pamela throughout the day. Of 
late he had not encouraged her to stay on in the drawing¬ 
room with him after the guests had gone. He had hurried 
her off to bed. Sometimes she had been asleep when he 
went upstairs. Sometimes she had not. Often in the 
night he had heard her sigh as she turned from side to 
side restlessly, while he lay still in the endeavour to 
persuade her by his breathing that he was fast asleep. 

What was to be the upshot of it all ? They were three 
straightforward, decent people. Pamela was his. He 
wasn’t going to give her up. Doran was too decent a 
chap for that. Still, he had been mixed up in that Cornish 
business. Men used such queer sophistries to muffle 
their consciences when they were in love. 

Suddenly it occurred to him to wonder if he were using 


SECOND BEST 


337 


them now—if he were facing this thing as it should be 
faced. His forgotten, half-smoked cigar fell from his 
fingers into the fireplace as he tried to envisage the stark 
facts of the case. 

Doran was in love with Pamela. 

She had been in love with Doran before she married 
him. She was—it had to be faced—in love with him still. 
She had fought against it for a time, and sent him away. 
Now, probably, she wanted him to come back again, and 
Doran had telegraphed assent. 

That was the situation in a nutshell. He frowned as 
he stared into vacancy, taking no heed, for the moment, of 
his own hurt. 

Pamela, the girl he had vowed to love and to cherish till 
death did them part, was his wife. He had taken the 
responsibility of life on his shoulders that sunny morning 
in the Bombay Cathedral. He must be strong for her 
now, as well as for himself. He could not run the risk 
of letting her and Doran meet too often. 

“Youth calls to youth,” Heloise had said. Young blood 
runs hot, and is easily fired. Sometimes a touch may 
undo the restraint of weeks, letting loose a passion that 
cannot be quelled. Absolute severance was the only 
remedy. 

He sighed heavily. What misfortune was this that had 
come upon them ? For, knowing Doran and Pamela as he 
did, he credited them both with his own simple desire to 
do the right, not merely the expedient, thing. His was 
the method of the clean cut. No temporizing, no com¬ 
promise for him. In this instance the two men were tied 
to the place by their work. Pamela was the one who must 
go. 

Yes, that was the solution of the whole matter. Instead 
of keeping Pamela out here for the summer, as he had in- 


338 


STOLEN HONEY 


tended to do, he would send her and Dido home. He 
would talk things out with her first. He would be very 
gentle, very patient, very tolerant. He would get her to 
promise to break finally with Doran. 

In August or September he would get leave and go 
home. They could talk the matter over again then, and 
see if they couldn’t readjust their lives together on a work¬ 
able basis. 

It was all very calm, very reasonable, very judicial; 
but—chilling to the heart’s core. 

“Oh, damn!” groaned Langrishe, covering his eyes with 
his hands. “Am I never going to have anything but the 
second best all my life? Pam—Pam!” 

Primitive man, with his elemental needs and desires, 
had him by the throat. Jealousy seethed at the thought 
of the man who had come before him in his woman’s 
heart. Heloise Waring’s innuendoes suddenly dropped 
their veils and stood before him as bare facts. 

Why should Pamela have wished to confuse the date 
of her visit to Cornwall ? Why—why ? 

Was it because- Oh, God, no! No, it couldn’t be 

that! Pam wasn’t—she couldn’t- 

Out of the tangle of thoughts the horrible suspicion 
leaped on him like a wild beast, clawing, tearing, rending. 
Try as he would, he could not rid himself of it. It tore 
his calm to tatters, made shreds of his judicial reasoning. 
Neither peace nor ease could be his until he had it by the 
throat in Pamela’s presence. He would go to her at once. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


ANOTHER PAYS FOR THE STOLEN FRUIT 

Even on the thought the clock on the chitmney piece sent 
out two silvery chimes. Damer looked at it in amaze¬ 
ment. Two o’clock! He couldn’t disturb her now. He 
had forgotten, too, to tell her that he had to go down to 
Cairo by the first train in the morning to meet Sir John 
Crooke, who was due to arrive there that night. He 
would probably have to stay down for the night. He 
wouldn’t see her in the morning, either. 

Perhaps it was just as well. He didn’t want to face 
her with this thing between them until they could have it 
out together. 

Langrishe was hardly sane in his thoughts that night, 
but he was sanely hard when he boarded the train next 
morning, and went down to Cairo to meet Sir John 
Crooke. 

% sjc sjs * s(: Hi 

Pamela felt a little frightened when, on awakening next 
morning, she saw that her husband’s bed had not been 
slept in. She had heard him come up the night before, 
listening drowsily to his movements in his dressing-room 
before she dropped off to sleep again. 

The empty white bed with its snowy mosquito curtains 
tucked carefully round nothing, gave her a queer, chill 
feeling, as if Damer had been suddenly reft from her. 
Such a thing had never happened before. She felt uneasy 
at its having happened now. 

339 


340 


STOLEN HONEY 


A tap at the door announced Hassan’s arrival with the 
morning tea. 

“Perhaps Damer wanted to get up early and slept in 
Tim’s room,” she thought. “I wish he hadn’t though. 
I’d much rather that he had stayed here. He wouldn’t 
have disturbed me at all. I don’t want him to drift away 
any further.” 

Hassan pointed to a folded note on the tray, and said in 
his soft, guttural English: 

“The Master say give the sitt that. He go by train 
early and sleep in Done Effendi’s room not to disturb the 
sitt” 

“Ah,” breathed Pamela on a sigh of relief. “Thank 
you, Hassan.” So that was it! He had had to go by 
train somewhere and had not liked to disturb her. She 
tore open the note with fingers that trembled a little. It 
was brief and businesslike. 

“My Dear Pam,— I quite forgot to tell you last night 
that I have to go down to Cairo to-day to meet Sir John 
Crooke. I may have to remain the night. If so, get Mrs. 
Durrant to put you up. I shall be back by five o’clock to¬ 
morrow at any rate. 

“Yours, 

“Damer.” 


How curt! How cold! How bald! 

Quick tears welled in Pamela’s eyes as she read the terse 
lines, unsoftened by even one word of conventional 
affection. What had happened to their love, the beautiful 
thing that had so rounded and enriched their lives? It 
was a real thing, a living thing. Surely nothing could 
have killed it so soon. It was too vital for that. 

She dressed slowly, feeling that all the meaning of 
life had gone out of it with Darner’s absence. 


ANOTHER PAYS FOR STOLEN FRUIT 341 

The long hours dragged by on leaden feet in spite of 
her varied efforts to hasten them. Luncheon-time 
approached with a menacing vision of another solitary 
meal. 

She was just wondering if she would have the courage 
to order for herself a tray in the drawing-room when the 
door opened, and Hassan, his dark face beaming, 
announced: 

“Don Effendi, ya sitt!” 

Pamela dropped the crotchet pattern which she was 
trying to master, and sprang to meet Doran with out¬ 
stretched hands. She quite forgot her anger and her 
promised scolding in her delight at seeing him again. 

“Why, Tiimsy dear, what good wind blew you here?” 
she cried rapturously. He held her hands for an instant 
longer as he looked down into her welcoming face. 

“It’s Friday, the Mohammedan holiday, you know. 
We always dock work that day. Your letter didn’t sound 
too chirpy, so I thought I’d run down and see what was 
up.” His friendly eyes noted her pallor now that the 
flush of welcome had faded, noted, too, the sharpened 
contour of cheek and chin and the dark marks under her 
eyes. “What have you been doing to yourself, Pam? 
You don’t look half the girl you did when I last saw you.” 

Pamela reddened a little under his scrutiny and drew 
away her hands. 

“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered lightly. “I’ve been 
fretting for Mrs. Waring, I suppose!” 

Doran laughed. “I don't think! . . . My God, what a 
woman! How does Mr. Langrishe stick her?” 

Pamela smiled. “Old associations, probably. Here’s 
Hassan to tell us luncheon is ready. I’m so thankful to 
have you, Tim. I was dreading the prospect of another 
solitary meal.” 


342 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Why ? Where’s your husband ?” 

He’s gone down to Cairo to meet Sir John Crooke. He 
may not be back till to-morrow.” 

“Ah, then, that puts the stopper on my staying here for 
the night.” 

I suppose it does,” said Pamela ruefully. “Though 
really, I don’t see-” 

“Nor I—but there you are! Others might.” 

“Which reminds me,” said Pamela, tucking her hand 
through his arm and leading him across the hall, “that I 
have a frightful scolding to give you.” 

“Fire away,” returned Doran smiling happily at her. 
“I suggest delivering it after luncheon on the terrace with 
our coffee.” 

“Ah, but I’m not joking at all,” she warned him. 

After luncheon a batch of home letters arrived which 
postponed the scolding still further, for there were bits 
of news to be discussed, leading to further “Do you 
remembers,” which spun the hours to an astonishingly 
quick close. 

“It’s hard to believe that Kitty is grown up,” said 
Doran at last. 

“Indeed it is,” Pamela agreed. “She’s as pretty as a 
picture, and as sweet as honey, and with it all she’s got 
a nice hot little temper of her own.” 

“I wouldn’t give a pin for a girl without one,” said 
Doran warmly. 

Pamela caught her breath at a wonderful thought, 
whirled off at once on the married woman’s favourite 
game. . . . Suppose that she had Kitty out next winter. 
. . . Suppose that she and Tim . . . ? He looked differ¬ 
ent already. His eyes had lost that miserable look. . . . 
She wouldn’t say a word, of course. She’d be discretion 
itself, but . . . 


ANOTHER PAYS FOR STOLEN FRUIT 343 

Her scolding was quite forgotten in the roseate dreams 
of her last hours of comparative happiness. 

Langrishe did not return by the five o'clock train, so 
Pamela and Doran went to the Durrants to invite them 
to dinner. 

“You’d much better stay and dine with us,” Monica 
Durrant said. 

“It would make a better break for you, Pamela, while 
Mr. Langrishe is away. You’re always having people at 
your place. You never come here. Mr. Doran can have 
a shake-down for the night with us. Pleasant tongues 
might only wag if he stayed with you.” 

“Someone will have to come over and breakfast with 
me,” declared Pamela, “I cannot face Hassan’s melan¬ 
choly brown eyes alone. They watch every mouthful I 
eat, and quite take away my appetite.” 

Thus it was that Doran only left El-Armut by the train 
that brought Langrishe back from Cairo. He saw, with a 
shock of surprise, the familiar lanky figure jumping into 
a first-class compartment just as the train was moving 
out of the station. 

The passion which he had kept under during his busi¬ 
ness visit rose chokingly within him at the sight. 

“The cur!” he thought. “The minute my back was 
turned. . . . That was what the wire meant. Damn 
him!” 

If Heloise Waring could have seen him then she would 
have realized that her “dear old friend” was not of the 
stuff of which the marl complaisant is made. 

He turned curtly to Hassan who had come to meet him. 

“Done Effendi is just gone,” the man told him in Ara¬ 
bic. “He runs for the train as usual. He is like the 
gazelle, leaping where others walk.” 

If Langrishe had not been so obsessed by the ugly 


344 


STOLEN HONEY 


thought that had hold of him he could not have refrained 
from a smile at the comparison of the gawky Tim to 
anything so exquisite as a gazelle; but humour, pity and 
the tender things of life had no place in his mind just 
then. 

The minute his back was turned the two whom he 
trusted had betrayed him. The black thought filled his 
mind to the exclusion of all else. 

Hassan’s guttural voice rambled amiably on, telling his 
master all the latest news. 

“The sitt found the day very long until Done Effendi 
came. There was no dinner at the house. They dined 
with Durrant Effendi and the two gentlemen saw the sitt 
home. Done Effendi went back with Durrant Effendi for 
the night.” 

“Enough,” said Langrishe shortly. He had no desire 
for information through the lips of a servant. 

What did it matter if the outward conventions were 
observed, if the inward betrayal had been made? He 
strode through the town, cleaving the many-coloured 
crowd as a swimmer cleaves the sea, with eyes that saw 
nothing but Pamela in Doran’s arms, ears that heard 
nothing but the words that betrayed him. 

So obsessed was he by the one idea, so skilfully had 
Heloise Waring prepared her ground and sown her seed, 
that no glimmering of Pamela’s innocence even occurred 
to him. So completely did one tiny piece of evidence to 
the contrary fit into another that the damning whole ad¬ 
mitted of no other possible construction. 

At last he reached the house and went up the 
steps. 

Pamela, every sense on the alert for his coming, ran 
into the hall at the sound of his arrival. 

“Welcome home, my darling,” she cried in her softest, 


ANOTHER PAYS FOR STOLEN FRUIT 345 

most caressing tones, as she went towards him with arms 
outstretched. 

She checked suddenly at sight of his grim face, the hard 
unyielding line of chin and jaw, the piercing accusation of 
the eyes beneath their bushy brows. Her heart sank. 
What had happened to make him look like that? 

“What is it?” she cried breathlessly, her rejected hands 
clasped piteously to her breast. “Darner! Is anything 
wrong ?” 

“Everything is wrong,” he said in a tone that cut. 
“Come in here. I don’t want a scene before the servants.” 

“But I’m not going to make a scene,” she cried, looking 
at him in blank bewilderment. “I haven’t the faintest 
idea what you mean.” 

Her lips quivered. She bit them to keep back the tears 
that sprang to her eyes, as she went into the drawing¬ 
room before him. 

She had filled the great pottery jars with long branches 
of mimosa, whose sweetness scented the big room with a 
warm fragrance. A covered silver dish of Mahmud’s 
little cakes stood on the tea-table, which bore a profusion 
of other dainties as well. There was an air of festivity 
about the whole place, which Pamela’s white frock accen¬ 
tuated. 

Now, in the heavy, painful silence that followed the 
closing of the door, it was as if someone had beaten down 
the welcoming hands, torn the flowers from the vases and 
trampled on them, scattered the little feast to the four 
winds. 

“I am waiting for your explanation, Darner,” said 
Pamela, with a dignity that cost her something to achieve. 

“It is yours I am waiting for,” he returned harshly. 
“Why did you send for Doran the minute my back was 
turned ?” 


346 


STOLEN HONEY 


Pamela opened wide blue eyes. 

“But I didn’t. I-” 

“Don’t trouble to deny it. I found his wire in the 
fireplace there. It must have been in answer to some¬ 
thing. I didn’t write to him.” 

“Of course I won’t deny it. I did write to him the 
day, asking him to come down whenever he could spare 
the time. He wired that he would. I meant to tell you, 
but forgot. There are always people here. I never see 
you alone.” She faced him, hurt and puzzled, her head 
held high, her eyes on his hard unrelenting face. She felt 
that it was for her to indict, not for him. 

It was not possible that he could be jealous of Tim 
Doran. . . . The thing was unthinkable: unworthy both 
of him and of her. The whole episode, her checked wel¬ 
come, this meaningless frigidity, seemed like a nightmare. 
They were two ordinary human beings, after all. Surely 
there must be some reasonable explanation of his extraor¬ 
dinary attitude. 

Suddenly he shot a question at her, jerked irrelevantly 
from stiff lips. 

“Pamela, do you still pretend ignorance of that Cornish 
episode ?” 

Pamela caught her breath. A ray of light slit the dark¬ 
ness. He had got on the track of the real story and it 
had hurt him. . . . Well, she was not going to lie to him 
for twenty promises. She would not give Dido away, 
but she was not going to lie. She had promised him that 
there should always be truth between them. That vow 
came first and held. 

“No,” she answered very low. 

“Pamela,” his voice roughened to an unbearable 
agony—“Were you the girl?” 

Pamela spun round as if she had been shot. If a chair 


ANOTHER PAYS FOR STOLEN FRUIT 347 

had not been near her she would have collapsed on the 
floor, so absolutely did her legs give way beneath her. 

“Damer, I could kill you for asking me such a ques¬ 
tion !” she said at last, in a tone vibrant with a passion he 
had never heard from her before. 

He was answered. Even as the words left his lips he 
saw by the change in her face that there, at least, he had 
wronged her. However far the affair between her and 
Doran had gone she was not the heroine of that ugly 
episode. The first feeling of shame at the part he was 
playing pricked him in the midst of his relief. It was not 
a pleasant feeling. 

“I’m sorry,” he began rather awkwardly. 

“Sorry?” echoed Pamela in a queer choked voice. 
“Sorry? That’s rather funny, isn’t it?” She began to 
laugh hysterically, catching her breath. 

“Funny?” he echoed uncomfortably. 

“Yes,” she gasped. “You’d say you were sorry in just 
that tone if you’d spilt a cup of tea on my dress! You 
say it now when you’ve dealt me the cruellest insult any 
husband—oh, Damer, how could you? . . . How could 
you?” She hid her face against the back of the chair 
and broke into low, agonized sobbing. 

The sound tore at his heart as he stood there, with¬ 
drawn, awkward, sensing her point of view for the first 
time. He had little knowledge of women, and a profound 
distrust of his own methods of dealing with them. He 
did not know what to do. He wanted to gather her into 
his arms, but was afraid to venture. It would have been 
his wisest course. 

Pamela sobbed as if her heart was broken. She was 
wounded to the heart’s core at the revelation of the abyss 
of infamy into which he had thrust her—her, his wife, 
who had shown him all the tenderest intimacies of her 


348 


STOLEN HONEY 


virgin heart, who had given him the first bloom of her 
young love, untouched by any other. 

Langrishe could stand it no longer. He went over and 
put his hand on her shoulder. 

“Come, Pam, you mustn’t cry like that.” 

She shook it off, as if his touch stung her. 

“Don’t come near me—don’t touch me! I can’t bear 
it!” she cried passionately. 

He withdrew. 

“Very well,” he said stiffly. “I wanted to talk sensibly 
about you and Doran, but-” 

“About Tim and me?” Pamela echoed stupidly, gulp¬ 
ing down a sob. “What can you possibly have to say 
about Tim and me?” 

“Only that I have seen for some time how things are 
between you. I—I’m not angry. I know you can’t help 
it. I—I only want to help you.” 

He stopped. He was trying to live up to his code, but 
primitive man was making it very difficult for him. 

Pamela sat up on the chair and looked at him as if she 
had never seen him before. For the moment it was a 
stranger who spoke to her—a cold, hard stranger with 
cold, hard eyes, who said impossible things in a hard, 
cold voice. 

Cold—hard! Where was the Darner she had known 
and loved, who had never been either? 

“May I ask what your wonderful discovery was?” she 
asked, in a voice that matched his own, her sobs dried by 
the white-hot fury that possessed her. 

“Need I put it into words?” said Langrishe. “Doran 
knows that I know. He admitted it when I advised him 
to stay away.” 

Pamela stared at him. The nightmare seemed even 
more incredible than ever. 



ANOTHER PAYS FOR STOLEN FRUIT 349 


"I think you have all gone mad!” she gasped. 

“Not mad,” returned Langrishe hardly—“sane at last!’* 

“If that’s your idea of sanity-” began Pamela, 

trembling suddenly. 

“Can you deny that you and Doran-” 

“I’m not going to deny anything,” said Pamela, her lips 
set in a line that had not been there for many a long day. 
“If you consider me capable of—of what you accused me 
just now, it doesn’t seem worth while.” 

“But Pamela-” 

“No, it’s no use. You’ve gone too far this time.” 

“I insist on having some sort of answer from you!” 

“What sort of answer do you want? I should have 
thought our life together all these months would have 
been answer enough.” 

Langrishe moved uncomfortably. Her reproach hit 
hard. Shame pricked him again. He found no words. 

Pamela’s soft, hurt voice went on: 

“I do you the justice to believe that you would not have 
thought of these vile suspicions of your own accord. I 
think I know whom I’ve got to thank for them, but if 
it had been the other way round, Darner, I shouldn’t 
have believed anyone’s word against you. No, not if the 
whole world had been on one side and you on the other!” 

Her voice trembled towards the close, and she began 
to cry again, quietly, heart-brokenly, burying her face 
in her arms. 

Langrishe came nearer to the forlorn figure in the chair. 

“Pam, forgive me!” 

He tried to put an arm round her. 

“No, no! You mustn’t touch me! Don’t touch me! 
I can’t bear it! You—you’ve killed all that!” 

She got up from the chair, faced him for a moment, 
wild-eyed and pale, then ran quickly out of the room. 



CHAPTER XXXIX 


THE CLEAN CUT 

“We've got to have this out, Pamela.’' 

“I suppose so,” said Pamela dully. 

For once Langrishe had refrained from bringing any¬ 
one home to luncheon, and he and Pamela faced each 
other over the debris of the meal. 

“I prefer to talk in a room that does not smell of food,” 
she said. “Let’s go out on the terrace. When Hassan 
brings the coffee, you can say your say.” 

She rose, crossed the hall and the drawing-room, and 
went out through the French window without a backward 
glance. Langrishe, as he followed her in silence, could 
not help feeling a touch of admiration in the depths of 
his aching heart at the completeness of her poise. Here 
was a wonderful development from the fresh simplicity 
he had married! He did not realize that it was suffering 
as well as matrimony which had turned Pamela so com¬ 
pletely from girl to woman. 

A sleepless night had given each time for thought. 
Pamela, who felt that she had suffered as much as she 
could bear, was conscious only of a numb ache now. The 
Carey pride, in all its strength, had come to her rescue, 
and helped her to cover up her hurt. She felt wounded 
to the death, but whether it were the death of love, hap¬ 
piness, or only girlhood, she did not stop to analyse. 

Darner’s accusation, the mere possibility that for one 
moment he should deem her capable of conduct so con- 
350 


THE CLEAN CUT 


35i 


trary to all that he must know of her, struck at the very 
depths of her pride and love. She felt that she could 
never forgive him, never feel the same towards him again. 
She was too young to realize the resilience of youth, to 
remember that to-morrow lies beyond to-day, and that 
behind the blackest cloud the sun still is shining. There 
was no possible to-morrow for Pamela in her dark hour. 
Nothing but the torment and disillusion of to-day. 

Langrishe faced the situation with a dumb bewilder¬ 
ment. He could not rid himself all at once of his care¬ 
fully constructed theory—could not realize that Pamela 
and Doran were not, never had been, lovers. Pamela’s 
attitude at once puzzled and angered him. He did not 
know how to combat it. 

When Hassan had set their coffee on a little table 
between them, and padded softly away in his yellow 
slippers, they sat silently for a moment, not knowing 
where to begin. 

A light breeze rustled the fronds of a group of young 
date-palms at the end of the terrace. Shy green bee- 
eaters flitted in and out among the long, wind-torn leaves 
of the bananas. A warm scent of mimosa was wafted 
across the river towards them, troubling Pamela with the 
remembrance of last night, and her happy little prepara¬ 
tions for Darner’s return. Her lips quivered suddenly at 
the thought of their swift frustration. 

“You know you have denied nothing,” Langrishe broke 
out suddenly. “I’m eating my heart out in misery for 
want of a word from you.” 

Pamela looked stonily at him. 

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking it!” 

“I’m a plain man, Pamela, and like plain words,” he 
answered. “I’ve no use for hints or vague phrasing. 
If you can give me your word of honour that that Cornish 


352 


STOLEN HONEY 


episode doesn't concern me in any way, it will suffice.” 

Pamela caught her breath. How could she give him 
the assurance he craved? Were they not all concerned 
in it? Did it not touch him vitally? 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she answered, very low. 
“It concerns me, in a way, but not-” 

“Pamela, can’t you be frank? Don’t you see that it 
is death to me not to be able to trust you?” 

“I see that it is death to me not to be trusted!” cried 
Pamela. “I give you my word of honour that I have 
never given you cause to distrust me! You must be 
content with that.” 

“You pretended before that you knew nothing about 
the Cornish episode. Now you admit knowledge. You 
gave different dates for your own visit.” 

4< 1 did not. I said all along that it was last summer, 
meaning the one before this one. What’s the use of 
arguing? We only go round and round in a circle, get¬ 
ting nowhere. If you think I love Tim, I do-” 

“Ah!” 

Langrishe drew in his breath sharply. 

“But not in the way you imagine. Oh, ’tis you ought 
to know that! I love him as I loved Randall, my own 
brother. He cared for me in the same way.” 

“No.” 

“Indeed he did, Darner.” 

“No,” jerked Langrishe again. “He admitted to me 
that he loved you before he went away at Christmas.” 

The man’s dark face was convulsed. Drops of sweat 
stood out on his forehead. Pamela looked at him won- 
deringly, her heart quite untouched by pity. A hand of 
ice was on it. His words were inexplicable to her. 

“I had forgotten that. I think you must both be mad,” 
she said quietly. “I happen to know-” 



THE CLEAN CUT 


353 


She stopped abruptly, with an exclamation of despair. 
How could she clear herself without implicating Dido? 

Langrishe looked quickly at her with a hope that died 
as it arose. What had she been going to say? Was there 
to be more evasion, more temporizing? He could not 
stand it. The clean cut must be made, and at once. 

“This is an impossible situation,” he said, with a hope¬ 
less gesture. 

“I quite agree.” 

“The only way to end it is to send you home.” 

The solution was an unexpected one. Pamela gasped. 

“Send me home?” 

“Yes. It’s the only thing to do. You and I can’t 
stay on here as we are. You see that, don’t you? I 
don’t want an open breach. I believe in people keeping 
their mistakes to themselves and showing a decent front 
to the world. It will be better for us to be away from 
each other for a while. I’ll get leave in August or Sept¬ 
ember. We can talk things over again then. We’ll have 
got away from them a bit by that time—be able to see 
them rather more clearly. Don’t you agree?” 

The curt sentences pattered like hail about Pamela, 
bewildering her. 

Why was she being sent home? Was there no other 
way out ? Suddenly she saw that there was not. It was 
the only way of ending the situation with dignity. A 
truce, a breathing-space, and then the patching together 
of the shattered shards of what had once been so beau¬ 
tiful. What then? At best, the cracks would always 
show. 

She bent her head. 

“I suppose I do. When do you want me to go?” 

“Not just yet. Sir John Crooke is coming to stay here 
next week. You can’t go till after his visit.” 


354 


STOLEN HONEY 


“No,” said Pamela dully. “What about Dido? Is 
she to come with me?” 

Suddenly Langrishe saw a vision of a house swept bare 
of all that had made it a home—an empty shell echoing 
with memories, haunted by the sound of happy voices 
and laughter, of young, running, welcoming feet. He 
felt that he could not face it. 

“No. She can stay if she likes.” He rose, pushed 
back his chair, and walked over to the parapet. 

Pamela, to her own surprise, began to laugh. It was 
part of the irony of it all that Dido, through whose fault 
the whole imbroglio had arisen, should stay, while she, 
the innocent, the scapegoat, should be sent home in 
disgrace. 

Langrishe turned sharply at the sound. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“It’s only—it’s only,” gasped Pamela, “that it seems 
so funny, so funny that I should go and Dido stay!” 

“I must have lost my sense of humour, for I don’t see 
anything funny in it,” said Langrishe curtly as he went 
away, love, jealousy, distrust, shame, and an aching 
longing to take Pamela in his arms, warring within 
him. 

If only she had been straight; if only she had been 
honest with him! But all these petty evasions, these 
futile subterfuges, blurred his belief in her crystal clarity. 
He must be able to trust whole-heartedly or not at all. 
Were there no really truthful women? Yes; Dido was 
straight. The thought of her restored belief in a dis¬ 
credited sex. 

He had no idea of the storm of tears that shook Pamela 
after he had gone—shook and spent her with a flood of 
feeling. 


THE CLEAN CUT 


355 


When it was over she dried her eyes and gave herself 
a mental shake. 

‘‘This is the last shower,” she told herself. “Positively 
the last. I can't afford to cry any more. It takes too 
much out of me. Even if my heart is broken, it’s got to 
be covered up decently. No one must ever see the crack. 
Not even Darner.” 

Her lips quivered at thought of him. She bit them 
hard to still their trembling. It was fortunate for her 
that she had a sufficient sense of humour to see the comic 
side of the situation, or the unfairness of it all would 
have overpowered her. 

“Dido steals the fruit; I don’t even look over the gar¬ 
den wall,” she mused. “Yet she gets off scot free, while 
I’m punished. What’s the meaning of it all? Is there 
any use in being straight and decent and honest? Is 
there any use in playing fair? Who knows? Who 
cares ? Why don’t I lie and snatch and steal, and then 
say I won’t pay, as Dido did?” Her own conscience 
quickly supplied the answer. “/ know —I care. To do 
other than what I’ve done wouldn’t be playing the game. 
So long as one does that, what does it matter who pays? 
Now I think my eyes are sufficiently respectable to be 
able to dash past Hassan if I meet him on my way 
upstairs.” 

She rose and made her way to her room unobserved. 
She bathed her eyes and forehead with cool water and 
eau-de-Cologne, and lay down on her bed to try to snatch 
some sleep. 

She felt as if at last her feet touched the bedrock of 
what she might be called upon to suffer. Darner was 
sending her away. Their life together had been a failure. 
He did not trust her . That, of itself, showed the depth 


356 


STOLEN HONEY 


of the failure, if, after all she had been to him, all she 
had shown him of her innermost heart, he could have 
imagined for one instant that she was as base as he 
thought. 

She dropped to sleep for a little while, waking first to 
that blessed unconsciousness of unhappiness which is 
slumber’s best boon, then gradually remembering. Yet, 
with her sleep a sort of fatalistic calm had come to her. 
She felt a new strength, a new courage with which to face 
her little world. 

‘‘I’ve been hurt as much as I can be. I’m not going 
to be hurt any more now,” she told herself childishly. 
“Truth echoes truth. Darner will know some day that 
I couldn’t lie to him any more than I could lie to myself, 
and then he’ll be sorry.” 


CHAPTER XL 


TRIO 

She dressed and went downstairs, to find that it was 
already tea-time. No matter what profundities disturb 
one’s inner life, the outward current must flow on un¬ 
moved. Breakfast, luncheon, tea and dinner were as 
inevitable in their order as the progression of day and 
night. Conventions must be observed, whether one’s 
heart were broken or not. 

It was with a slight sense of relief that Pamela heard 
the sound of more than one set of footsteps in the hall. 
In the brief interval between hearing and sight her mind 
leaped quickly backwards. 

“Has this been going on ever since Christmas, then?” 
she thought. “Has Darner been afraid all this time of 
being left alone with me? Is this why he has always 
buttressed himself with these men? To have someone 
between us? Why?” 

She had a chilly, frightened little feeling as she rose to 
give her hand to Jim Durrant, Langrishe’s present buck' 
ler against a tete-a-tete. 

“You’re not looking very fit, Mrs. Langrishe,” Durrant 
said, peering at her over his glasses. “What have you 
been doing with yourself?” 

“Nothing much,” returned Pamela, suddenly finding 
speech easy. “Just the usual routine.” 

“She’s been feeling the heat a bit,” said Langrishe in 
his abrupt way. “I’m half thinking of sending her home 
before the weather really stokes up.” 

357 


358 


STOLEN HONEY 


"Ah, Monica will be disappointed. She’s keeping the 
kiddies out here this summer, and was looking forward 
to having your company, Mrs. Langrishe. It’s all right 
here, really, and quite bearable, if you take proper pre¬ 
cautions.” 

"We’ll see,” said Langrishe. 

Pamela looked at him for signs of relenting, but saw 
none, so concluded that his apparent concession was only 
a figure of speech. 

Her early training as eldest daughter at Carrigrennan 
stood her in good stead now. She found that she was 
able to talk fluently about nothing at all, and keep the 
ball of conversation rolling, in spite of the fact that her 
inner world, which was her real one, had crumbled about 
her ears. 

It was easy enough, once one had got the trick of it. 
She and Langrishe were well-bred people, and played 
their little tragi-comedy daily for Hassan’s benefit. There 
was a sufficiency of interest in their everyday life to pro¬ 
vide safe topics of conversation. Outwardly all was un¬ 
changed, except that Langrishe now slept in the smaller 
spare room. Inwardly nothing was as it had been. 

They met, they touched nowhere, these two who had 
once drawn so close together that they had almost welded 
in the perfect unity of married life. The golden glow of 
their love, which had illumined their world and lent a 
glamour to the merest triviality, had suddenly been with¬ 
drawn. They now walked in a garish day, beneath a 
pitiless light which revealed every flaw, every imperfec¬ 
tion, in what before had seemed but dearly human. The 
petty round loomed mountainous, unsweetened by the 
touch of what had made each trivial duty a joy. 

To add to the sense of oppression which weighted the 


TRIO 


359 

days, the great Moslem fast of the month of Ramadan 
started on its uncomfortable course. 

It was Hassan who first told Pamela about it. 

“Thirty days fast, Hassan ?” she said in surprise. 

“Yes, ya sitt. From sunrise to sunset during the month 
of Ramadan the true believer may neither eat nor drink 
nor smoke. He may not wet his lips with a drop of 
water. He must not even swallow his saliva.” 

“When may he eat, then?” 

“While it is too dark to distinguish between a black 
thread and a white. Only then may he feast, ya sitt!' 
It was the Arab’s poetical way of indicating the hours 
between sunset and sunrise. 

Pamela, like most Egyptian housewives, soon found 
that Hassan’s phrase, “too fast,” was no hyperbole. All 
day long the drowsy, hungry servants slept or crawled 
reluctantly through their duties. When the sunset gun 
announced to the faithful that the hours of fasting were 
over for the moment, feasting and revelling began. 

The house on the river bank was pleasantly far re¬ 
moved from the noise of the town, where drums beat a 
welcome to the ■coming of night, pipes shrilled rejoicing, 
crackers were sent off, and shouting and laughter pre¬ 
vailed during the hours of darkness. Night was given 
over to eating and merrymaking until such time as the 
black thread and the white became once more distin¬ 
guishable. Then the replete and lethargic servants 
snatched what repose they could from the uncomfortable 
day. 

It was unfortunate that Ramadan should have syn¬ 
chronized with Sir John Crooke’s visit, but the eminent 
contractor was in holiday mood and in the humour to 
be pleased with everything. The Arab servants, who, 


360 


STOLEN HONEY 


unlike most English ones, loved company, brightened at 
his coming. 

Small, stout, with a well-curved waistcoat and bright, 
darting eyes, Sir John Crooke reminded Pamela irre¬ 
sistibly of a sparrow. He pounced on stray admissions 
as alertly as that bird does on crumbs. Nothing escaped 
his quick glance. 

It was on the second day of his visit, while Pamela sat 
on the terrace waiting for her house-party to return for 
tea, that the unexpected happened. 

She was lying in a long cane chair, her hands for once 
idle in her lap, her eyes fixed on the glowing amber hills 
across the water, when a firm, light step behind her 
roused her from her reverie. 

She turned quickly, to see Raoul de Marsac. 

“M. de Marsac! What a surprise!” she cried, rising 
and holding out her hand. 

He held it for a moment, then kissed it. 

“Chere Madame, it is good to see you again! Good to 
be back in Egypt, to see the real sun!” 

In spite of the slight theatricality of his words, sincerity 
rang in his tone. His mobile, dark face was alight with 
eagerness as he stood there bareheaded in the afternoon 
sunshine. 

He had altered a little, she thought as she looked at 
him. He seemed at once older and younger than when 
he had left El-Armut; more purposeful, more alert. She 
could not quite define the change, but it was there. 

“I have had a family bereavement, since I saw you 
last,” de Marsac said, drawing a chair close to Pamela. 
“I have lost my father.” 

“Oh, Pm sorry,” said Pamela, thinking suddenly of 
her own father and all that his death might mean. 

“He was an old man, and had been in ill-health for 


TRIO 


361 


long. Still, death is a blow, no matter how well-prepared 
for it one may be. I am glad that I got to Paris in time. 

My mother and my little sister-” He paused. “But 

I must not sadden you with my troubles.” 

“If one may not talk to a friend-” Pamela began. 

“Am I, then, to consider you as my friend ?” he in¬ 
terrupted eagerly. 

“But, of course, M. de Marsac.” 

“I mean it literally, not in the light, conventional 
sense,” de Marsac continued. 

“I hope that I mean it in the same way,” said Pamela, 
with dignity, wondering what he was going to say. 

“You and Mr. Langrishe have always been kindness 
itself to me. I was desolate that I had not time to come 
to see you before I left El-Armut.” 

“The snake-bite? Are you quite well?” 

“Quite well. I had almost forgotten it.” 

He glanced down at a little scar on his wrist, and 
smiled. 

“We shall never forget it. Dido will never forget it,” 
said Pamela, on an impulse. 

At mention of the girl’s name, de Marsac seemed to 
tauten like a drawn bow-string, almost to vibrate. 

“Ah, la p’tite mademoiselle! How is she ?” he breathed, 
rather low. 

“She is very well, thank you. She is up in Luxor at 
present, with Mrs. Waring.” 

“In Luxor?” 

The string relaxed, slackened. 

“Yes. She is having a very good time there.” 

“Naturally. She is of a chic—a charm-” 

He stopped abruptly. 

Pamela took her courage in both hands. 

“M. de Marsac, Dido is very young. It is a good thing 




362 


STOLEN HONEY 


that she should see as much of the world as possible 
before-” 

“But it is I who must show it to her. I who speak to 
you, no other. Madame, this is all very unconventional. 
I should address myself to her father first, and get his 
permission to speak, but what you tell me sets my blood 
on fire. I cannot wait. I cannot bear to think of her 
there in Luxor, surrounded as always. I must go. I 
can catch the five o’clock train. You will tell me where 
she stays?” 

The hot words poured out in a torrent. De Marsac 
had risen. Pamela rose, too, and faced him. He looked 
pale, and there was a strange fire in his eyes. The bow¬ 
string had tautened once more. It sang its own unde¬ 
niable note at the mention of Dido’s name. 

Pamela laid her hand on his arm. 

“There is still plenty of time,” she said. “It is not 
half-past four yet. Hassan will take your things to the 
station.” 

“I have my own man. He is at the hotel. I have 
made no arrangements. I came here first.” 

“M. de Marsac, what do you want with Dido?” 

Pamela felt that she was blunt, even coarse, in putting 
such a question, but she must know where she stood. 

“I want to ask her to marry me, naturally. Mr. 
Langrishe must pardon me that I do not go to him first. 
But I cannot wait. You understand, chere madame? 
You will explain?” He seized Pamela’s hands and 
kissed them both, one after the other. “You will wish 
me good fortune?” 

She felt a little thrill, half of pity, half of envy. 

“Yes, indeed, I wish you good fortune,” she said 
gently. “Dido is staying at the Winter Palace Hotel.” 

He was gone, leaving a troubled stir behind him. A 



TRIO 


363 


few minutes later Langrishe and Sir John Crooke came 
out on the terrace. Pamela braced herself for the usual 
platitudes, and chattered inanely, as she thought herself, 
while she poured out tea, remembering her guest’s three 
lumps of sugar. 

“Was that de Marsac I caught sight of leaving the 
house just as we were coming along ?” Langrishe asked, 
during a pause in the flow. 

Pamela looked at him curiously before she answered. 
Was he going to be jealous of M. de Marsac now? That 
would be a little too much! 

“Yes,” she returned quietly. “It was a most unex¬ 
pected visit. His father is dead, and I fancy he has come 
back here to settle up his affairs.” 

“Why didn’t you make him stay to tea?” 

“He couldn’t. He was in a hurry. He was going to 
Luxor.” 

“To Luxor?” 

“Yes,” returned Pamela significantly. 

Surely not even the blindest victim of jealousy could 
read an unlawful passion into such a precipitate flight. 

She had a moment alone with Langrishe later—a rare 
occurrence. She seized it desperately, lest he should 
elude her before it vanished. 

“Darner, do you know why M. de Marsac went off to 
Luxor in such a hurry?” she asked. 

“No. Do you?” 

Langrishe bent a keen look on her. 

“I do. He asked me to explain matters to you.” 

“To explain matters to me! What has it to do with 
me ?” 

Langrishe gazed at her in surprise. De Marsac seemed 
very much detached from their personal affairs. 

“It may have a good deal.” Pamela was not going 


364 


STOLEN HONEY 


to beat about the bush. “He wants to marry Dido.” 

“To marry Dido!” 

Langrishe sat down heavily on the parapet and looked 
at her in amazement. Such an idea had never entered 
his head. He found it difficult to credit it even now. 

“Yes. He wouldn’t wait. He has gone straight off 
to ask her.” 

“But it’s absurd! Dido is a child. Besides, she r d 
never look at a Frenchman.” 

“Oh, don’t be so insular, Darner. Dido is not a child. 
I don’t believe she ever was a child. She’s a woman,, and 
she will do just as she likes in the matter.” 

Langrishe was silent, pondering this new and not alto¬ 
gether pleasant idea. Dido and the Frenchman! Dido, 
his little girl- 

“You think there’s something in it?” he said at last. 

“I think there’s everything in it.” 

“Do you mean that she wants to marry him?” 

“Where have your eyes been that you haven’t seen that 
the girl was head-over-ears in love for him for weeks 
past ?” 

“With de Marsac? My little girl! In love with de 
Marsac ?” 

“Yes, your little girl in love with de Marsac,” repeated 
Pamela, in rather a peculiar tone. 

The tenderness in Darner’s voice when he spoke of 
Dido exasperated her almost beyond endurance. 


CHAPTER XLI 


TRIUMPHAL RETURN 

Sir John Crooke had gone, and the servants lapsed once 
more into their usual Ramadan sleepiness and irritation. 
The first of the khamasins —the hot spring winds that 
sweep across Egypt with fiery breath—raged round the 
house on the river bank. 

The glass window's were shut to keep out the fine sand 
that filtered through in spite of all precautions. The 
green sun-shutters were closed to bar the sunlight’s en¬ 
trance. Not that there was much of the sun to be seen 
during the khamasin. His rays were obscured by the 
hot, yellow swirl of the sandstorm. 

When Langrishe, in the courteous tone of one com¬ 
plete stranger to another, politely thanked Pamela for all 
the trouble she had taken to make Sir John Crooke’s 
stay a success, she felt that she would rather he had 
sworn at her. Even vicarious violence would have been 
a relief. She herself longed to scream at him, to shake 
him, to do anything that would shatter his cold polite¬ 
ness. Instead she only looked at him with a detachment 
that matched his own. 

“He was our guest. What else could I do?” 

Surely Darner must know that his code of hospitality 
was hers. She had never failed in that respect yet. 
Indeed she did not yet know how or where she had failed. 
She wondered about it with an aching unquiet. She had 
assured him on her word of honour that she had never 
given him cause to distrust her. If he believed Mrs. 
365 


3 66 


STOLEN HONEY 


Waring’s hints and innuendoes rather than her word and 
his own knowledge of her—she shrugged her shoulders 
and turned away. 

Langrishe’s eyes rested on her hungrily. To him also 
life was torment just then: all natural instincts curbed. 

‘‘Pamela, you must let me thank you. The whole visit 
was a huge success, business as well as personal. The 
latter part was all your doing/’ 

She thrust aside praise that once would have been so 
sweet, but now was absolutely savourless. “Oh, no, 
Darner. You are an excellent host yourself.” 

“But you-” he began, when there was a confusion 

of sound in the hall outside, a flutter of arrival, a scurry 
of feet. The drawing-room door was flung open and 
Dido, in a long cream coat with a cream veil twisted 
round her head, ran into the room. De Marsac stood 
on the threshold behind her, half tentative, half posses¬ 
sive, wholly triumphant. 

“You dear people,” she cried gaily. “Kiss me before 
I literally turn into a sand-heap.” 

She gave Pamela a hasty embrace, then flung herself 
into her father’s arms. 

Langrishe was surprised at the rush of feeling which 
overpowered him at the touch of the small face against 
his, the close clasp of the clinging arms. All the father¬ 
hood in him rose at sight and touch of his child, unseen 
all these weary weeks: how weary he had scarcely re¬ 
alized until now. 

She was his, his own, the one human being in his inti¬ 
mate life who had never failed or disappointed him. It 
was good to have her back again, good to see her vivid 
little face, to hear her gay light voice, to feel her butterfly 
kiss on his cheek. 

He did not see de Marsac until Dido disengaged herself 


TRIUMPHAL RETURN 367 

from him and turned towards her lover with a new little 
air of shyness. 

“Raoul, where are you?” She took his hand and led 
him up to her father. Her head just reached his 
shoulder. She leaned back against it as if she drew 
strength from the contact. 

“Be nice to each other, my two men,’’ she commanded, 
looking up at Langrishe. “Raoul and I are going to get 
married, Dad.” 

“Well, ’pon my word,” Langrishe began. 

“I have a thousand apologies to make, monsieur,” de 
Marsac said at the same moment. 

“I think, de Marsac, that you and I had better talk 
this matter over in my office.” 

“I am at your service, monsieur.” 

“Come along, then.” 

De Marsac took Dido's hand and kissed it. She looked 
after the two men adoringly as they went out af the 
room together. 

“Aren’t they lambs?” she said dreamily. Then she 
turned to Pamela and caught her hands. “Oh, Mammy 
Pam, I’m so happy that I don’t know whether I’m on 
my head or my heels. I want to sing! I want to 
scream with joy! I want to dance!” 

She whirled Pamela round and round in a wild maze 
until they sank together breathless on the couch. 

Pamela felt immeasurably old, immeasurably sad in 
the face of such youthful exuberance. Yet once, too, 
and not so very long ago, she had felt just like that, just 
as radiant, just as happy. 

“What if your father doesn’t consent?” 

“He will consent. There’s nothing against it. It’s too 
wonderful, Pam.” Dido went on in a soft voice. “To 
think that Raoul should have chosen me out of all the 


368 


STOLEN HONEY 


other women in the world! I can scarcely believe it 
eyen yet.” All the humility of real love rang in her tone. 

"Well, child, I hope you’ll be very, very happy,” said 
Pamela, rising and walking restlessly to the darkened 
window. "I like M. de Marsac, and he seems to be 
genuinely in love with you.” 

"Oh, you dear prim, creature! Genuinely in love 
indeed! Love is a fire, a flame, a spirit, a tornado! 
What do you know of love?” 

"Not much, I’m afraid,” answered Pamela, without 
turning round. 

Something in her tone pierced the girl’s self-absorption. 
She ran to the window, caught Pamela by the shoulders 
and twisted her round. 

"What’s the matter, Mammy Pam?” she cried. "I 
haven’t been able to see your face properly in this dark 
room, but your voice sounds all wrong.” 

Pamela managed quite a credible laugh. “It’s the 
khamasin. It upsets people’s nerves, you know. And 
we’ve just had rather a fussy time with Sir John Crooke’s 
visit. He ‘left only to-day. It’s the Ramadan fast too, 
and the servants are stupid and irritable. They sleep 
all day and eat all night, which of course upsets their 
digestions.” 

"Three topping reasons, and not one of them the right 
one! I’ll have to wait until the lamps are lighted to have 
a good look at you. I believe Dad has been beating you, 
you’re so subdued.” 

"How did you guess?” asked Pamela, with difficult 
lightness. "Husbands in El-Armut always beat their 
wives during Ramadan.” 

"It’s good for the wives but bad for the husbands,” 
declared Dido. "However, I’ve certainly seen some 
women for whom the stick seems the only treatment.” 


TRIUMPHAL RETURN 


369 


“Dear me, how primitive we’re getting!” 

“The desert influence,” murmured Dido. “Raoul and 
I are going to spend our honeymoon in tents.” 

“You’ve made plans already?” 

“Why not? We’re not going to waste any time. 
We’re going to be married as soon as we can. There’s 
nothing to wait for. We know our own minds. I have 
my mother’s money and Raoul has plenty of his own.” 

“What about clothes ?” 

“I’ve stacks of them. If I want anything else I can 
easily run down to Cairo and get it. But I don’t.” 

“There’s nothing like having one’s plans cut and dried,” 
said Pamela, with a queer little smile. “You seem to have 
lost no time in making yours.” 

“Why should we?” cried Dido. “I’m afraid we rather 
shocked our Louisa, but that doesn’t trouble me much.” 

No, nothing would trouble her much, Pamela decided. 
She was wrapped in a roseate mist of happy isolation 
from her surroundings, a mist through which she and one 
other walked hand in hand in mutual absorption. How 
long would it last, Pamela wondered dully. Had they 
anything solid to build their house of happiness upon, 
or would they find when the mist dispersed that they had 
forgotten to build anything at all? She had thought 
that her own house was stout and stormproof, and lo, she 
found it was but a draughty shed through which the 
winds blew coldly. There was no use in asking Dido if 
she knew what she was doing. The glamour was upon 
her. She could not see clearly. Perhaps it was as well. 
If one always saw clearly beforehand probably no one 
would marry at all, she told herself bitterly. Let Dido 
stay in her Fool’s Paradise as long as she could! She 
would not be the one to hunt her out of it. 

“Mrs. Waring does well to be shocked,” she said, after 


370 


STOLEN HONEY 


a pause. “Perhaps it would shock her even more if she 
could see herself as others see her.” 

“Why? How do you see her?” asked Dido, with a 
quick glance. 

“I see her as an evil, mischief-making woman,” returned 
Pamela, slowly. “A woman who tries to blacken your rep¬ 
utation even while she’s eating your bread and salt.” 

“Pam! What do you mean ?” cried Dido rather breath¬ 
lessly. 

The door opened and Langrishe looked in. His face 
was still grim, but his eyes softened as they rested on his 
daughter. 

“Come here, little girl. I want you in the office for a 
minute.” 

Dido jumped up, and ran to him, slipping her hand 
through his arm. “Have you been nice to Raoul, Dad? 
I’ll never forgive you if you haven’t.” 

“How can I be nice to the bandit who’s going to rob 
me of my child?” said Langrishe tenderly. 

Dido laughed. 

They went away together, closing the door behind them, 
forgetting Pamela in the engrossment in each other. 

She sat down suddenly in one of the big chairs, drum¬ 
ming on its arms with restless fingers. She felt as if she 
were a prisoner in that dark airless room. Shut away 
from all life’s joys and beauty. Heloise Waring had 
drawn her magic circle well. Even though she did not 
stand within it herself now, she had made it strong and 
fast enough to keep Pamela out. 

She felt stifled. With a wild glance round the room 
which she had worked so hard to beautify, she got up and 
left it. 

She crossed the hall almost on tiptoe lest she should 


TRIUMPHAL RETURN 


37 i 


disturb the conclave behind the closed office door; the 
family council from which she was deliberately excluded. 

She went up to her room and sat on the edge of her 
bed, wondering dully how much longer she could bear it. 


CHAPTER XLII 


DIDO OFFERS PAYMENT 

That evening there was feasting in the house by the 
river-bank, as well as in the town of El-Armut. 

Pamela arranged white roses in her remaining gold-shot 
Venetian vases for the betrothal dinner-table, and reft 
strips of golden tissue from an evening dress for its fur¬ 
ther adornment. She put her cherished high-stemmed 
Waterford glass dish in the centre, piled with Dido’s 
favourite Yussuf Effendi oranges, among which she scat¬ 
tered a handful of their own fragrant blossoms. For in 
Egypt, blossom and fruit are to be seen at once on the 
same tree; promise and fulfilment meet for the bridal. 

Then she went to change her dress with a heart as heavy 
as lead. Dido’s insouciance made her feel old, stupid, 
and unutterably weary. Her brain whirled at the easy 
way in which the girl dismissed vital problems and swept 
aside everything that seemed to stand in the path of her 
own happiness. Nothing else appeared to matter. 

Perhaps it didn’t, Pamela thought. Perhaps Dido was 
right to take her happiness when she could. She might 
not get the chance again. 

She was ready early. There was no pleasant lingering 
now for a word with her husband, no intimate interchange 
of the various little events of the day. Darner used the 
dressing-room altogether and never entered her room at 
all. 

The situation was fast becoming intolerable to him also. 
Pamela’s repudiation of him, her hurt shrinking from his 

372 


DIDO OFFERS PAYMENT 


373 


touch, had wounded him more cruelly than she had any 
conception of. Reticent always, he withdrew more than 
ever into himself, and let the wound fester where it should 
have been cleansed and healed. 

If Pamela had ceased to care for him, if she shuddered 
even at his touch, that must mean that she loved another 
man, in spite of all her protestations to the contrary. 
The obsession held, rankling bitterly. 

Now Dido was leaving him too. She was marrying a 
man of whom his insular prejudices did not altogether 
approve. ... Not that there was anything really against 
de Marsac. He seemed a decent enough chap, and it was 
easily seen that he adored Dido. Still . . . Why couldn’t 
she have fallen in love with a man of her own nationality ? 
Young Welland, for instance, of even—Doran? Yes, 
if Doran and she had only taken a fancy to each other 
there need have been none of this coil. 

He sighed heavily as he tied his tie, and paused for a 
moment to listen to Pamela’s movements as she went to 
and fro about her own room. Then he heard the door 
open and the sound of her footsteps along the corridor. 
He stood still until they died away, frowning until his 
brows met above unhappy eyes. 

Early as Pamela was, Dido was downstairs before her. 
All the lamps in the drawing-room were lit, and the room 
was suffused with a golden glow. Tall spaces of star- 
sown blue showed where the French windows stood open 
to let in the suddenly cooled night air. 

The khamasin was over, and the sky was clear once 
more. It had been more of a menace than a perform¬ 
ance : a foretaste of the three-day storms which were yet 
to come. Dido flitted from window to door, from couch 
to chair, restless, brilliant as some darting golden hum¬ 
ming-bird. 


374 


STOLEN HONEY 


“Raoul said he’d be early and he hasn’t come yet,” she 
cried as Pamela entered. “Can anything have hap¬ 
pened ?” 

“I don’t think it’s half-past seven yet,” Pamela an¬ 
swered. “He’ll probably be here in a minute. Sit down 
and tell me how the interview went off.” 

Dido looked at her curiously. “Why I was counting 
on you to tell me what Dad had said!” 

“I haven’t seen him since he went up to dress.” 

“You haven’t? . . . Pam, what’s wrong? Oh, don’t 
fence with me and tell me it’s nothing. Pm not blind and 
I can see that you’re looking awful. Dad’s not himself 
either. He’s got quite thin. What has happened ? 
Surely you haven’t quarreled?” 

“N—no. I don’t think we’ve quarreled,” answered 
Pamela slowly, as if she were weighing out each word. 

“Then what is it? I know there’s something wrong. 
Dad said something about your going home. The last 
arrangement was that we were both going to stay out 
here for the summer.” 

“Oh, you may stay. . . . I’ve got to go.” 

“I’d have stayed in any case, but why have you got to 
go?” 

“It’s better. We’ve arranged it. The heat-” 

“Tosh! Please remember that I’m not a baby, Pam. 
I know far more about the world than you do.” 

“Probably.” 

Dido pursued her train of thought, regardless of tres¬ 
passing. “Another thing, too. Why does Dad sleep in 
the spare room now? I looked in there and saw his 
things.” 

Pamela flushed hotly. “Please leave our private affairs 
alone, Dido. They don’t concern you.” 


DIDO OFFERS PAYMENT 


375 


“I’m beginning to think they do/’ answered Dido, in 
a queer tone. “Pam, are you by any chance paying for— 
what I did?” 

Pamela looked at her sharply. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Just what I say. Eve been putting the thought away 
from me ever since I came home, but it’s no use. It’s 
there. It won’t let me rest. . . . Pam, you must tell me. 
Are you suffering in any way for my idiotic affair with 
Tubby Doran?” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“One of my intuitions, I suppose. Just because it’s 
the odious, tormenting sort of thing that would crop up 
just when I’m beginning to be so happy! Tell me, Pam. 
Has Heloise been making mischief ? She tried to pour 
her poison about you and Tubby into my unwilling ear. 
She even hinted that it was you who had been in Cornwall 
with him!” Dido’s voice was strained and uncomfort¬ 
able, her cheeks hotly flushed. “I said I was sure it 
wasn’t you, but I couldn’t tell her the truth, could I? I 
might as well have put it in the daily papers. She’d have 
told everybody.” 

“She has told enough people, as it is,” said Pamela 
hardly. 

“Who has she told ?” 

“Your father.” 

“That it was you ?” 

Pamela nodded. She could not speak. 

Dido bit her lip. 

“But surely he didn’t believe it? He couldn’t.” 

“He believed—some of it.” Even the admission hurt. 

“How much?” 

“He—he believed that Tim and I were in love with each 


376 


STOLEN HONEY 


other.” She could not voice the whole bitter truth. 

“But didn’t you tell him you weren’t?” cried Dido 
eagerly, clasping and unclasping her hands. 

“Of course I did. But it didn’t seem to matter. He 
had some mad idea that Tim admitted to him that he 
cared for me. I can’t understand it.” Pamela spoke 
hopelessly, tonelessly. 

“Why didn’t you tell him that Tubby cared for me?” 

Pamela looked at her in surprise. “Didn’t I promise 
you I wouldn’t? Sure, if I’d told him that, it would 
have set him off on the track of the whole thing!” 

“Oh, Mammy Pam, what a dear fool you are!” cried 
Dido, ruefully. “I’ll have to tell him myself now, just 
at this most inopportune moment.” 

“Ah, but you needn’t,” said Pamela, making her final 
sacrifice. “Don’t tell him. ’Twill hurt him, Dido.” 

“I can’t help that. He shouldn’t have been such a 
fool as to believe Heloise’s lies,” returned Dido, hardly. 

“I can’t imagine how he could, knowing you. But men 
are idiots!” 

“That was what hurt most,” said Pamela, very slow. 

“To think he could believe-” 

The door opened to admit de Marsac, handsome and 
distinguished in his evening dress. His eyes sought and 
found Dido’s at once. She ran to him. “Raoul, I 
thought you were never coming,” she cried. “What 
makes you so late?” 

De Marsac looked down with a little thrill of triumph 
at the wild bird which he had tamed to his hand. 

“Every moment away from you seems an hour, ma mie” 
he returned. “I was afraid to seem too impatient.” Then 
in a louder tone: “Present me in form to ma belle-mere. 
She has been very kind to me.” 


DIDO OFFERS PAYMENT 


377 

“She’s kind to everyone,” said Dido, in a half-grudging, 
half-rebellious tone. 

She felt very resentful of the cloud on her new-found 
happiness, very reluctant to pay anything now for the fruit 
in secret and long forgotten. Inherited qualities warred 
with fostered inclination with disturbing results. Dido 
did not like being made to think of anyone but herself. 

“You have given your consent too ?” de Marsac was say¬ 
ing to Pamela, as he bent over her hand. 

“Is it necessary, Monsieur?” she asked smiling. “I 
think that my congratulations are all that are required 
now.” 

“I have those, then ?” 

“Most warmly,” Pamela returned. 

Dido looked quickly round as the door opened and her 
father came into the room. She scrutinized him closely. 
Yes, he had changed. He seemed older, thinner, grimmer. 
His step was heavier and his eyes had lost their boyish 
twinkle. 

Her heart sank. Would her confession add to his 
burden, or lighten it. She wished that she knew. Why 
was everything so mixed? Why could she not enjoy her 
happiness unalloyed ? 

All through the surface sparkle of the little dinner-party 
a note of warning sounded in her ears. Bitterly now did 
she regret her bygone folly. Her stolen fruit had been 
but Dead Sea Apples, savourless from the first. No, 
decidedly it had not been worth what it had, what it might 
yet cost .... What a little fool she had been! 

But up to this, she reminded herself, it was Pamela who 
had paid, Pamela who was still paying, although she had 
no more to do with it than her father himself. The first 
glimmer of moral obligation came to her with the 


378 


STOLEN HONEY 


thought. . . . One cannot do wrong and suffer alone. It is 
like a stone cast in a pool: one never knows who may not 
be touched by the recurrent widening circles of one 
thoughtless action. She had imagined that she and Doran 
would have been the only people who could possibly be 
affected by their escapade, and now, here were her father 
and Pam involved—perhaps Raoul, too! Ah, no! She 
beat away the thought. Raoul must be kept out of it. 
The widening circles must not touch him. 

Healths were drunk in champagne. There was a well 
sustained air of festivity throughout the meal which all 
but one of the party knew to be artificial. 

And yet Pamela’s gaiety was not altogether forced. A 
little bell of hope rang in her heart. A glimmering of 
dawn appeared on her dark horizon. If only Dido kept 
her word and told the truth to Darner, who knew what 
might happen? 

After coffee the lovers went out on the terrace. 

“I want to show Raoul my view,” said Dido, slipping 
her arm through his. 

“Take care that you don’t catch cold, child,” warned 
Langrishe, a prey to the mingled feelings of the parent 
who has just given his child to another man. 

“Lovers never catch cold,” declared Dido, smiling. 

As she went out she cast a swift, uncomfortable glance 
at the two she was leaving: Pamela in one corner of the 
couch, her father in his big chair, smoking his inevitable 
cigar. 

Why did they look so determinedly aloof from one 
another, spoiling her exquisite hour? Why could they 
not have been sensible, and gone on their happy humdrum 
way without minding Heloise Waring’s lies ? 

As they stepped out into a warm, scented darkness 
lit by large trembling stars, a silver slip of moon swept 


DIDO OFFERS PAYMENT 


379 


into sight in a rift of deep blue sky between two tufted 
palms. Dido turned to de Marsac. 

“Kiss me! Love me! Make me forget everything 
in the world but you!” she demanded, clinging to him 
suddenly. 

He drew her close. His lips sought and found hers. 
She fired him as no other woman had power to do—this 
strange, wild, passionate, ageless child. 

“Beloved, there is nothing in the world but our love,” 
he murmured. “Je t’adore!” 

At the touch of his passion her whole being flamed, 
fusing with his. She had the swift forgetfulness she 
desired, the absolute obliteration of all but love. The 
past had vanished, the future was still veiled. Only the 
ecstasy of the present remained. 

A little owl hooted from the end of the garden— hou- 
hou, hon-hou! 

Pamela, in the lamplit room heard it, remembering that 
other night when she had listened to its eerie cry. 

Silence had fallen between the two indoors. Langrishe 
held a paper in his hand, but instinct told her he was not 
reading it. She listened to the slow puffing of his cigar, 
watched for it as one watches for a recurrent sound. 
Each time she heard the soft little noise she said to herself: 

“Now I must speak. Now I must say something.” 

But she could think of nothing to say. The silence 
grew weighted, menacing. Pamela felt that she must 
break it, no matter with what triviality. At last she said 
in a tone that sounded unnatural. “What do you think of 
Dido’s engagement ?” 

Langrishe took out his cigar and carefully knocked off 
the ash. “It’s not what I’d have chosen for her.” Speech 
was a relief to him as well. 


380 


STOLEN HONEY 


“What would you have chosen ?” 

“A man of her own nationality, five years hence.” 

“Yes, that would have been soon enough.” 

“Too soon, really.” 

“Damer, we can’t order other people’s lives. We can 
only help them to the best of our ability. Dido’s heart is 
set on this. There is no use in trying to thwart her.” 

“Not the least. From the time she could toddle she’s 
always known what she wanted and got it. I wished for 
a long engagement. She won’t hear of it. De Marsac 
says he wants to marry her as soon as possible. But I’ve 
held out for a month.” 

“A month?” echoed Pamela. “Will you really let them 
get married in a month?” 

Langrishe smiled ruefully. “They got round me some¬ 
how. Dido is very specious. I’d given my consent 
almost before I knew it. I want the child to be happy.” 

“Of course,” Pamela hastened to say, welcoming this 
brief semblance of companionship. “But a month seems 
such a short time.” 

“Let them be happy while they can,” said Langrishe 
curtly. “They’ll have all the rest of their lives to repent 
in.” 

His words struck Pamela with a personal application. 
She rose, with a quick hand to her breast. 

“Damer! You don’t mean that? You don’t think 
they’ll repent?” 

“Most people do, don’t they? Sit down, Pamela, and 
let us talk business. This wedding puts a stopper on your 
going home for the present, I suppose. Do you think that 
you can stand the heat for a month or so longer ?” 

Pamela bit her lip. “I think that I can stand the heat 
better than the cold,” she faltered, “You—you chill me 


DIDO OFFERS PAYMENT 


38 i 

to the heart’s core with your dreadful politeness, Darner.” 

The swift attack found him unprepared. He started at 
her shaft, checked himself, stammered: 

“You? I?” His cigar dropped from his fingers. 

They faced each other silently, white and tense, seeking 
for words and finding none. 

A voice from the open window startled them. 

“Look here, you two, I can’t have this!” 

They turned to see Dido, a slim vision of white and 
gold, brilliant against the blue night without. 

“Can’t have what?” asked Langrishe abruptly. 

The gi*rl came forward a step or two. 

“I can’t have you spoiling my happiness with your 
nonsense,” she returned, with an obviously assumed 
lightness. 

“Come, Dido, don’t go too far,” warned Langrishe. 
“Our affairs have nothing to do with you. No one can 
spoil your happiness but yourself.” 

“That’s true .... Mon dieu, that’s true,” she said in a 
frightened whisper. For an instant she seemed to shrink 
into herself and away from some terrifying vision. Then 
she pulled herself together and held her head high. 

“Well, I can’t help it if I spoil my happiness. I can’t 
stick the thought that I may be spoiling yours.” 

“How could you possibly be spoiling ours? What do 
you mean ?” asked Langrishe curtly. 

Dido came closer and put out a warning hand. 

“Hush. Speak low. I don’t want Raoul to hear. . . . 
I mean this. I don’t know what mad notion you’ve got 
into your head about Pam and Tubby Doran, but there’s 
not one word of truth in it, from beginning to end.” 

Langrishe paled beneath his tan. Drops of sweat stood 
out on his forehead. Pamela shrank into her corner of 


382 


STOLEN HONEY 


the couch, trembling, incapable of speech, feeling almost 
as if she were looking on at some scene in a play. Her 
heart rushed out to her husband. Even at the last 
moment she would have spared him if she could. 

“What do you mean, Dido?” he asked again. 

“I mean that he’s in love with me, and with no one else,” 
answered Dido decisively. 

“But—that girl in Cornwall?” 

“/ was the girl in Cornwall,” said Dido, very low. 

“You?’* The word was scarcely audible. 

“Yes. I . . . Listen, Dad, there was nothing in it, 
really. It was folly. Nothing more. Pam will tell you 
the rest. I must go back to Raoul.” 

“No you don’t.” Langrishe’s tone rang with command. 
“Come here, Dido. We’ve got to have this out. You 
also, Pamela. You’re both in this conspiracy against me, 
it seems. ... You knew too.” 

Pamela looked at him in dumb appeal, but said nothing. 
There seemed to be nothing to say. The thing had got 
beyond her control. It lay between father and daughter 
now. All her heart yearned over her man. He must feel 
as if his whole world had failed him, as if his house, too, 
were crumbling about his ears. She knew what that 
meant. 

“There’s no conspiracy. Don’t be stupid,” said Dido 
sullenly. “The Cornish episode was just a childish es¬ 
capade. Pam found out about it quite by chance, and I 
made her promise not to tell. That’s all.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. You say that you 
stayed alone in Cornwall with Doran? But you never 
met him until you came out here?” said Langrishe, in 
heavy astonishment. 

“I did. I met him in town last spring.” 


DIDO OFFERS PAYMENT 


383 


“Then why did you conceal the fact?” 

Langrishe bent heavy brows upon the small, defiant 
figure, who returned his gaze hardly. “It seems that I 
have been deceived and lied to all along ... by those 
whom I trusted most.” 

He looked from Dido to Pamela in an agony of re¬ 
proach. It was the bitterest moment of his life. Pamela 
could stand it no longer. She sprang to him and caught 
his arm. 

“Darner, my man, I never lied to you. . . . Dido, tell 
him the whole story. You owe it to him,” she cried 
passionately. 

“I must send Raoul away first.” 

“It seems to me that his place is here,” said Langrishe, 
his eyes still on Dido. 

He did not look at Pamela, but he put one hand on the 
trembling ones that clasped his arm and held them as a 
drowning man may clutch a spar. 

Dido cried vehemently: “No, Dad, no! Not tcr-night. 
I won't have Raoul told to-night. Let me tell you first. 
He has nothing to do with it. You must wait until I send 
him away.” 

“Very well. Send him away, then.” 

“Pam . . .” he began in a choked voice. “Pam . . .” 

She waited for no more. Her arms were round his 
neck, her soft cheek against his hard one, her heart swell¬ 
ing with pity, love and tenderness. 

“My own man! . . . My dear one! . . .” she mur¬ 
mured brokenly. “Oh, I am so sorry.” 

He held her so closely that it hurt. 

“Pam. Can you ever forgive me?” 

“My dearest, there's nothing to forgive. Sure, I love 
you!” 


384 


STOLEN HONEY 


“But you wouldn’t let me touch you. You shrank 
from me,” he said incoherently. 

“Ah, that was only for the moment. I never meant it, 
really.” 

“You didn’t?” 

“No more than you really meant that you believed-” 

her voice choked. 

Langrishe, in his humiliation, wondered at his madness, 
his black blindness. Surely she was right. Surely in his 
innermost soul he had always believed in her truth and 
purity. Here, at least, was “a fixed star,” shining above 
the other ruins. 

“Pam, I know what the abomination of desolation 
means now,” he whispered shamedly. 

“So do I. . . . Oh, Darner—to have you back again? 
. . . What desert were we wandering in? I thought I’d 
have died.” 

“It’s been hell,” he said tersely. 

“Yes. Distrust is worse than death,” she answered. 
“But now we’ve got each other again. We’re closer 
than ever. We’ll never, never drift. Will we, my own 
man ?” 

“No.” He strained her to him. “I didn’t know what 
you meant to me until I thought I had lost you. Kiss 
me, my heart’s core. I’ve been dying of thirst in my 
desert.” 

“You mustn’t die if I can save you,” said Pamela, 
with a happy little laugh. In that instant they tasted 
joy unalloyed, forgetting for the moment that in the cup 
of life sweet and bitter are inextricably mixed, the one 
tincturing the savour of the other. 

Dido slipped along the terrace to where a red spark 
and white blur showed where her lover awaited her. She 



DIDO OFFERS PAYMENT 385 

went up to him, and putting her arm through his, leaned 
against him. 

Her heart was beating madly. Was this the beginning 
of the end? Not if she could help it. She would fight 
to the death if need be, for her lover. 

“Raoul, mon ami ” she murmured in her most honey- 
sweet tones. “I want you to be a darling and go now.” 

“You are tired,” he said, throwing away his cigarette, 
and slipping his arm round her. 

“No. It’s not that. The fact is—whisper.” She 
drew down his head to hers. “Things have gone a little 
bit crookedly with the two inside. I think I can put them 
straight. That’s why I want you to go. You can come 
as early as you like to-morrow.” 

11 Mon ange, je tf adore!” he cried, with a repetition 
which held no weariness for Dido. “How am I to endure 
all these hours without seeing you again ?” 

“Only a month more now,” she whispered, feeling as 
if she were flinging down a challenge to Fate. 

“Only an eternity,” he groaned, as he kissed her. 


CHAPTER XLIII 


BITTER SWEET 

“And that’s that,” ended Dido on a note of defiance that 
quavered a little. 

Her story was told in all its unlovely crudity, and she 
stood before her father to receive sentence. She was 
learning at last that the Tree of Knowledge was beset 
with thorns, and that those who pluck its fruit unlawfully 
must suffer from their sharpness sooner or later. 

Langrishe looked at her almost as if he had never seen 
her before. In a sense he had not. He had always 
looked upon an idealized Dido, bright and sparkling, a 
little thoughtless, perhaps, like most young people, but 
crystal-clear, in her transparent honesty, hating deceit as 
he did himself, holding her standard of girlish purity high 
above a sordid world. 

Now he flung to the other extreme and saw a shallow 
creature, hard and flippant, caring for nothing but her 
own amusement, lying, deceiving, cheating, in order to 
get it. He did not realize that in her tardy truth-telling 
Dido had reached the heights which she had never attained 
before. He only saw the virgin oriflamme trailing in the 
dust: the bloom of her precious reputation rubbed away 
by careless fingers, her very honour at the mercy of chance 
tongues. 

It was a humiliating revelation, devastating in its de¬ 
struction of cherished ideals. 

386 


BITTER SWEET 387 

“Well, what have you to say?” asked Dido, after a 
moment's silence. 

“I don't know what to say,” returned Langrishe heav¬ 
ily. “You have disappointed me bitterly, Dido, though I 
don't suppose you mind that.” 

Dido flushed. “I do, but I don't expect you to believe 
it. You've said yourself that you’d never trust a person 
who once deceived you.” 

“I was not thinking of my own daughter when I said 

that. I don’t want to be hard on you, Dido, but-” 

He put out his hand and dropped it with a hopeless ges¬ 
ture. “Does Doran still care for you?” 

“I believe he does in his own stupid way.” 

“You must marry him, then. It's the only thing to 
be done. He holds your honour in his hands.” 

Dido sprang forward with flaming cheeks. “He does 
nothing of the sort. I hold my honour in my own hands. 
I've done nothing to be really ashamed of. I wouldn't 
marry Tubby Doran if he were the last man in the world.” 

“Dido, you are very young. You can’t possibly know 
your own mind.” 

“Haven't I always known my own mind ?” Dido flashed. 

“Not in the Doran affair evidently,” returned Lan¬ 
grishe, with a touch of sternness. “God knows I don’t 
want to coerce you into a loveless marriage, child, but it 
seems the only decent thing to do.” 

“It would be the most shamelessly indecent thing to 
do! Nothing in the world would induce me to marry 
Tubby.” Suddenly her defiance broke. She ran across 
to the chair where Langrishe sat, chin on hand, and 
dropped on her knees by his side. “Dad, you won’t in¬ 
sist on telling Raoul, will you? There is no reason why 
he should know. If I had done anything really wrong 


3 88 


STOLEN HONEY 


I should tell him of it myself, but when I didn't—when 
it was only folly-” 

Langrishe looked down at the bent gold head, his 
fatherhood warring with shattered pride and disillusion. 
Then his eyes met Pamela’s.. 

“We’ve had enough of unnecessary misunderstandings, 
Darner,” she said gently. “We know how easy it is to 
make innocence look guilty. I really don’t think M. 
de Marsac need know. . . . Perhaps Dido will tell him 
of it herself one day, when their love has grown strong 
enough to stand the test. After all, she needn’t have told 
you unless she wanted to. She risked her own happiness 
for ours. We mustn’t forget that.” The soft voice 
stopped suddenly. 

Langrishe put his hand on Dido’s head and spoke in a 
milder tone. 

“Well, dittle girl, will you let it be a lesson to you if 
I promise to keep silence? Mind you, I’m violating my 
principles by doing so. I’m going against my conscience 
in-” 

Dido flung her arms around his neck. “You dear old 
Dad!” she cried incoherently. “If you’ve nothing worse 
than that on your conscience they ought to canonize 
you! . . . I am sorry. I am indeed. I feel a beast when 

1 think of all that you and Pam- Why, what’s the 

matter with Pam?” 

Pamela had fallen in a crumpled heap along the couch. 
For the first time in her healthy young life she had fainted. 
They rushed to her, all else forgotten. 

“Water, Dido, quick—and brandy!” cried Langrishe, 
lifting the prone form and laying it flat on the couch, 
fear tugging at his heart. 


BITTER SWEET 389 

A moment later Pamela opened her eyes to see his 
agonized face bending over Her. 

“My darling, I thought you were dead/’ he cried. 

She tried to rise, and leaned against him. 

“I don’t know what came over me. I never did such 
a thing in my life before,” she said, feeling rather ashamed 
of her weakness. 

“Here, drink this,” Dido commanded, looking at 
her somewhat quizzically. “You behave with mar¬ 
vellous tact. You saved a decidedly awkward situation.” 

“Did I ? I hope I won’t be called upon to do it again,” 
said Pamela, with a quavering smile. 

“I hope not either,” said Langrishe. “Do you feel 
well enough to get upstairs now? Shall I carry you?” 

“Oh, no,” she answered. “I’m really all right again, 
Darner. I expect it was the khamasin. I’ve been feeling 
rather funny all day.” 

“I haven’t been looking after you properly,” said 
Langrishe, ruefully. He put his arm round her and 
they went upstairs together, Dido following in their wake. 

“Dido will stay with you until I come back,” Langrishe 
said. “I must go down and put out the lamps.” 

Dido followed Pamela into her bedroom. 

“Let me help you undress, Mammy Pam,” she said 
with an unwonted gentleness. Then with one of her 
quick impulses she flung her arms round her stepmother. 
“You are a nice thing, Pam, in spite of your dreadful 
conscience,” she whispered. “But I’m afraid you won’t 
be able to stay out here for the summer, after all.” 

“Won’t I? Why not?” asked Pamela, innocently. 

“Oh, you goose! Do you mean to say you don’t know 
what’s the matter with you?” cried Dido. “I guessed 
almost from the first moment I saw you to-day.” 


390 


STOLEN HONEY 


“D%dol yr Pamela’s face flushed rosily. Her eyes grew 
vefrv bright. She sank on to ,the side of the bed. 
“Dido ... !” She trembled suddenly. 

“Wait and see!” advised Dido oracularly, sauntering 
out of the room as Langrishe came into it. 

“What are you to wait and see ?” he asked, going up to 
his wife with eager lover’s eyes. 

Pamela looked at him, then away again. 

Suddenly courage came to her with the wonderful 
conviction that Dido was right. She held out her arms 
to him with a beautiful gesture. 

“Dido has discovered a secret. Come here and let me 
whisper it to you, my man.” 

He knelt beside her and put his arms around her, find¬ 
ing balm for his hurt. 

She bent and whispered in his ear, as she held his head 
closely to her breast. Out of darkness they had come 
into light. They were one at last. 


THE END 


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